


Let None Rebuild the Crypts

by Ghostigos



Series: A Cord of Two Strands [3]
Category: Outlast (Video Games), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Disabled Character, Gen, Medication, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-03 21:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12155541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: You’re not safe, and there’s never been closure on what happened with you, the Walrider, Chara, or Murkoff. You’ve been hiding out with David for so long that the nagging sense of facing all of what you left behind, in the real world, is fading. You know that this is a temporary setup for a permanent problem, and you can’t keep running from it.But your baseline shifts so much that you’re scared to admit disclosure. That everything you’ve done has consequences. And you’ve worked so hard to give Chara and yourself a sanctuary that if this all slips through the cracks, you wouldn’t know where to go from there.Or: Miles decides to come to a decision and meets inevitable conseqeuences





	1. happily ever after has bite marks in it

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back
> 
> This story takes place TWO YEARS after the events of [Trophy Case.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10534794/chapters/23259630) Miles is approx. 29 and Chara is 14!
> 
> As always, be warned that much of this fic centers around heavy issues and this chapter is no different. Proceed into the hellbrain of Miles Upshur with caution (PTSD, chronic nightmares, dissociative episodes, mental instability, references to past trauma and self-harm). Also, since the end of Trophy Case, Miles's limb pains have gotten to the point of him having to wear arm/leg braces on bad days.
> 
> Friendly last reminder that Miles is also written with [SPD](http://outofthefog.website/personality-disorders-1/2015/12/6/schizoid-personality-disorder-spd) in mind

The farm is larger than you often find yourself appreciating.

In honesty, a lot of your default walks around the property are settled in the thick forestry just outside of the farmhouse and the barn. And during those walks, you’re not really anchored in your surroundings, as attempting to leash the sour desires in your bones often costs much of your concentration. You don’t think much about where you are, or how pretty the woods may be on that particular morning, so much as working your rusted joints again. And it's not like you're that great at _jogging_ anymore.

But sometimes, in a clear mind, you marvel at the scenery you’ve been placed in. Today you notice your footsteps crinkling on dead leaves and useless undergrowth, and then you welcome yourself back into the territory of where you’ve spent most of your time lately; the living quarters of the farmhouse are so solitary and comfy that you don’t see any reason to explore elsewhere.

You breathe in the air of dawn, finding a ghostly smile stretching your lips.

The sunrise always tends to carry with it a dense fog that plasters the farm’s endless fields of wheat, often causing you to grab a jacket when you’re heading out. Even on bad days, when you’re demoted to just sitting on the porch and admiring the splashes of pink and orange along the mountains, it’s too chilly unless the blood is pumping. So the encouragement of warmth is often enough to get you on your feet in the mornings. Age and chronic pain be damned, it does help the grogginess of mornings dissolve and help you prepare for the day ahead.

As you walk back, you listen to the chirping crickets as they die down whilst the daytime approaches, and some long stalks of grass slap harshly at your body, which you curse at. But the scene itself is something you’ve called homey; it’s reassuring, and you revel in every moment of it.

Usually if a nightmare takes enough, you walk around in the forest from the morning till a good way into the afternoon. But, in your relief, the last echoes of any sort of bloody images or unholy buzzing on your eardrums has dissolved into something tolerable. And your mind drifts to whether or not you should head inside and make coffee.

You decide not to break any sort of serenity captured in this moment, when it could be shattered like glass by a bad move or a passing thought. You deserve this rest; and when you reach the front porch you slink into one of the patio chairs. Besides, David can make the coffee when he wakes up.

The whine of a screen door opening catches your attention; David, speak of the devil, pokes around the edge of the doorway with curiosity. He seems surprised when he sees you resting on the porch, even if the sight of you post-hiking around the barn, shaking off bad nights, is becoming less uncommon.

He greets you with a mandatory, “Morning.”

You return a small, “Morning” as well, to get your voice working properly and rid yourself of any stray exhaustion.

Since your brother seems to have showered, as indication from is dampened hairstyle and that his clothes aren’t the cleanest, you assume he’s about to go out to see the cows. But for the moment, he glances over at the sunrise that showers the porch with gold lighting, nearly blinding him as he regards the dawn.

Then he turns back to you. “You’re up early.”

The wheat blows in the gentled breeze, having your shiver from the extra chill. “I thought I’d admire the view,” is all you tell him, a half-truth; he nods in understanding.

“You sure it has nothing to do with any nightmares?” David asks, taking a seat in the chair beside you.

“Probably,” you admit. “Not anything I remember, though.”

This time, he grins, exposing teeth. “Hey, that’s what we call improvement, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

But you don’t believe it. Although the incidents of your control waning have been stretched few and far between, you still feel the hurricanes in your blood, swirling and yearning for release. It’ll take more than a couple of years to tame it; the Walrider is still a shaky thing, and even though there are nights of safety where you’ll let him roam free through the woods, it’s always followed with some sort of consequence.

It’s just something you’re having to accept is unsolvable. A mutual suffering between Host and parasite. And neither of you is willing to yield.

David leans back into the walls of the house, seeming happy to leave the conversation at that; he crosses his arms. “I think the kid’s down at the barn.”

You perk up.

A dull alarm in your system emits from trauma, upon discovering the current uncertainty of Chara’s whereabouts. It should be making you panic some, with the wandering thought that Murkoff has finally come for you both.

But your feet remain planted to the floor, and you relax, ignoring the rising anxiety with a nonchalant hum of consideration.

“It’s early for them to be up,” you end up remarking.

“They may have had a nightmare again,” David speculates.

You frown. “That bad?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see them in the house anywhere.”

Before you get up in a fit of worry, David hastily assures you, “Their boots are gone. They’re probably with the chickens.”

He knows that you’re sensitive, still, with keeping everything in check. If something occurs, you appreciate having the situation carefully analyzed, pinpointing escape routes and backup protocols for worst-case scenarios. Call it unhealthy, your obsession, but restraint and order has gotten you far enough that you’re divorced from any other mechanism.

Lack of order has influenced many wrongs beforehand, and like hell are you going to let anything slip out of reach again.

But any tranquility of the moment has slipped enough for you to get back on your feet, albeit cautiously with a few sour pangs in your braced knees. Your brother seems concerned, and he probably thinks you’re going to assume the worst and go off the rails. Which you’re known to do.

You calmly inform him, “I’ll go see where they are.”

He doesn’t seem settled, but he nods. “Alright.” He makes room for when you squeeze past him and step down from the porch.

The blood circuiting through your veins begins to warm your body again, familiarizing yourself again with the cold morning. Your former hike around the woods have assisted in the sharp aches of awakening becoming a hazy memory. And it gives you another moment of breathing in the cool air, polishing your senses.

You’re not safe, and there’s never been closure on what happened with you, the Walrider, Chara, or Murkoff. You’ve been hiding out with David for so long that the nagging sense of facing all of what you left behind, in the real world, is fading. You know that this is a temporary setup for a permanent problem, and you can’t keep running from it. 

But your baseline shifts so much that you’re scared to admit disclosure. That everything you’ve done has consequences. And you’ve worked so hard to give Chara and yourself a sanctuary that if this all slips through the cracks, you wouldn’t know where to go from there.

 _Now’s not the time,_ you decide to yourself, and the questions under your skin remain unsolved.

When you arrive at the barn—a shabby thing, but it does the job—you hear the chickens clucking the way they do when they have company. The sound of seeds spilling across the ground eases your thumping dread; and as you approach you hear the fluttering of wings and the soft croon of a voice.

You turn the corner, near the chicken coop out back, and some tiny burden you’d carried from the porch to the barn is lifted upon seeing Chara hunched over, busying themself with the hens. They’d always seemed to have this favoritism with the birds, always seeking them out once their chores were completed. You know that they adore animals.

Chara notices you first before you have time to concoct a reason for yourself, and their eyes brighten.

“Hi!” they chirp, and you give a tired smile automatically.

“Hey,” you walk over to where they’re surrounded by the flock. “Having fun?”

They look fondly on the hens crowding them, with some eagerly pecking at the bucket they’re holding, full of feed.

“Tons,” they answer you, and then they proudly point to a speckled chicken. “I finally named the newest addition! Meet Sprinkles.”

You place your hands in your pockets as Sprinkles cocks their head over to the kid, as if responding to the name. It certainly fits, given the dotted pattern of the feathers.

“Fitting,” you comment, and Chara's grin widens.

“Thanks, you can tell it took a lot of contemplation,” they tease. “But Sprinkles deserves the best.”

You shrug. “I just call them Chicken Number One and Chicken Number Two.”

The kid slumps with mock disapproval. “That’s just cruel. How would you like it if I called you Human Number Twenty-Nine?”

“It’s easier to remember,” you joke. “I just call you That One Kid That Steals All The Chocolate In The House.”

Chara just sticks out their tongue. “Ha ha. And you don’t have any proof that it’s me, so there.”

You watch the chickens scurry around in their fenced home a bit more, enjoying the promise of peace that they bring, despite how vocal they tend to be. But they’re a symbol of the home you’ve made for yourself, so you’re alright with them, even if they tend to be a bit loud at times.

Chara holds out the bucket of seeds towards you. “Do you want to feed them?”

You decline. “You go on ahead. I don’t want to spoil your fun.”

They shrug, unfazed by your rejection, and toss out a couple more pellets for the chickens to peck at. You wait patiently until they’re satisfied with their job, then slip through the bustling crowds of poultry to head towards you.

“Can you help me put this up?” They gesture to the weighted bucket.

You've exercised your joints enough so that you’re confident enough to nod. “Sure.”

You both head inside the barn and place the chicken feed on a near shelf overhanging a small workshop your brother had set up. You’re glad that Chara has gained height in the past two years you’ve known them, crawling up to your shoulders, so you don’t have to assist them as much as before when it comes to chores that require height limitations. You know that they’re going to be pretty tall when they’re older. But still, for now you’re fine with helping.

“May I ask why you’re up so early?” you pry as you settle the bucket near the wall, where it won’t fall off.

Chara hesitates, expression deflating with that familiarity you’ve come to terms with. You recognize the exterior symptoms of a bad morning easily, with their slightly-stiffened muscles and droopy posture.

Their eyes flit downwards when they murmur, “Bad dream.”

“About what?” you ask.

They shrug again, with unreadable features, and make their way back to the henhouse to scoop all the runaway chickens back inside; they squawk a little with protest. When the large cage is sealed, they join you again as you make you way back to the house.

“The usual, I guess,” they answer, tone rigid. You don’t press further, because you’ve gained enough experience to know that ‘the usual’ isn’t kind. ‘The usual’ can either be something of their hostile parents, or something from the schoolyard, or an episode in Murkoff, where all bets are off, concerning such.

You know that they don’t want to talk about it. You never like to talk about it, either.

So you saunter in silence through the whispering grassland, but it’s a calm form of sanction between you both that makes the atmosphere stick to your soul in a revitalized sense. There’s nothing that will make anybody here feel better— Chara knows that you only walk on the worst types of mornings—but you’re coming to terms with that. The conclusion in itself is somewhat alleviating.

You find your arm draping over the kid’s shoulder, drawing them closer to your side, and they just sigh and melt into your hold. It’s not a gesture you put thought into anymore; many personal comfort zones have been popped and shattered, leaving behind a frail yet promising thing. One that makes you hug them close on bad days, even when you’re unsure of it.

This action seems to be doing more good than harm, though; Chara has sunk to your upper ribcage with a tired sigh.

“I just figured I wouldn’t have them as much,” they say into the wind.

You understand that. “I know, buttercup. But nightmares are a pain in the ass. If I don’t know any better they’d be the last thing to leave. But you don’t seem to have them as much since we changed your prescription, so that’s a plus.”

“Bleh. They taste weird, though.”

“It wouldn’t be medication if it didn’t taste like shit,” you dispute.

You feel Chara grin a little. “True enough.”

As you’re nearing the house, a blurred spot of black-and-white bounds through the wheat, sprinting on all fours towards you and Chara. The rash instincts make you throw out a protective hand near the kid, tucking them backwards, before the threat is identified as Lady.

Chara gives a happy cry and breaks away your grip to kneel down and allow the dog to lick their face furiously. The kid just giggles.

“Morning, girl!” they greet happily, running their hands through Lady’s thick fur. You just watch along the sidelines, aware that Lady can still be jumpy around you, possibly catching scents of decay under your skin, or tasting the copper and nanites locked onto your bloodstream. But she’s docile enough to not growl or bark anymore when you pet her.

When you get to the house, David is long gone, and you know he’s off to start his early duties. You trail up to the screen door, with Lady behind you both. By now the sky is pale blue, having been drained of the colors that make sunrises so appealing. It’s becoming a more timely hour, where farmers around your own shabby dwelling are beginning to stir if they haven’t already.

Chara bounds up the steps, nightmares seemingly forgotten, and turns back around to you. “Did David make any pancakes?” they ask.

You just blink. “How the hell should I know? It’s a bit too early for him to be working on it now. Besides, he just left.”

They pout. “Aw. I could’ve really used some of those.”

“Well,” you make your way inside, “when he gets back, you’re allowed to pester him all you want about it.”

You both make haste in taking off your dirty shoes by the door, with Lady bombarding your space meanwhile and wagging her tail. “You mean it?” Chara asks, in artificial incredulity.

You nod, grinning. “Sure thing. Bug him all you want. And tell him to make me some, too.”

Heading inside, you catch sight of Chara’s crinkling eyes, and then their smile. It’s loose and carefree, like many of their smiles are learning to be. And your heart swells.

“Will do,” they promise.

-

True to type, David makes you both pancakes. He pretends like it wasn’t his plan from the beginning to cook the meal, and gripes in mock exasperation about your constant hunger issues and how he can never seem to keep you both full for long.

(But experience assures you that his words are all in fun; Chara is eating more, and your sudden cravings will never cease. You’ve all found that this is as fair a solution as any.)

Passing the false complaints, it’s an uneventful breakfast. You’ve taken up a nasty habit of reading the paper in the morning whenever you can nab it. You try and play it off as pretending to have something to do, so David doesn’t try and bother you with mentioning farmyard duties for the day, which he’s known for doing at sour times.

Secretly, you skim over the print with the fear of finding your names in a bolded warning. And, secretly, you’re looking for some sign that your haven has been compromised, that the world has gotten smart and broadcasted your identities on screens and papers nationwide. That the town has caught wind of who you _really_ are and what danger you are to them.

You’ve refused to gain contact with the outside world for so long, but your presence in this lonely community is like teasing the inevitable. No matter how isolated this place seems, you know that it’s surely an illusion; they’re too friendly and welcoming. They have no interest in current politics outside of their own social circle. They grant you warm smiles— especially to Chara—and will occasionally stop by on whim just to talk about the weather.

Whatever Carla’s cousin has done to keep your true crimes private, it seems to be affective. It’s astounding that, in a town that has access to national news, all the current happenings of the locals are, coincidentally, more acknowledged. You’re not sure what strings are being pulled, and at this point you don’t care.

This issue doesn’t mention your names once. That’s all you fight for nowadays.

Chara, meanwhile, is piling their plate with food while your brother watches with onlooking amusement.

“Yeesh,” he muses, “Do I need to go next door and ask them to make you breakfast too?”

The kid shrugs off his teasing. “I’m a growing kid,” they reply curtly.

It’s true. Over the years, you’ve noted on the slow progression of physical changes that comes with adolescence. Chara was barely a teen when you’d met them; now their body is transforming into something more mature, more stable. With that, their hair has also grown rapidly, where they have to stuff it into a ponytail; they tell you that they have a new respect for long hair.

You’re just glad that with age comes the replenishments of skin, and the old scars along Chara’s arms and legs are fading. They still take to cloaking their body with long-sleeved shirts or jackets, but they don’t have arm braces to cover up their past like you can, so you don’t worry about it too much.

David allows for Chara to stuff their face with his cooking, and he reaches out to steal a quick bite of bacon from off your plate. You give him a light punch. “Get your own.”

“Can’t,” he muffles, and swallows as he stands up. “I’m off to the market. Peter said he needs some help setting up down there. Plus, Smith’s vegetables are gonna sell fast, so I might as well grab a share. And you’re coming with.”

You look at him with strong disapproval upon hearing the last sentence. “Because…?”

“Because I know that you’re gonna sit around on your ass all day unless I drag you along with me,” he retorts. “Boredom is the mind killer.”

You hate when your brother’s right. You had no further plans today other than to survive your hellish brain’s schemes. Best to exercise barricading the fort, just in case.

With a reluctant groan, you hurry up your eating a smidge.

Chara looks up while they finish their meal. “Can I come too?” they ask, mouth half-full.

David nods. “I don’t see why not.”

“Great!” The kid gulps and turns to you with a toothy grin. “Now we can be antisocial together.”

You smile in return, oddly touched.

“Ugh, you both always conjoining to foil my plans,” David sighs, falsely exasperated. He gets up to ready himself for the upcoming trip. “It doesn’t make the hobby of dragging you places any fun.”

Chara promptly excuses themself from the table, with a surprisingly-empty breakfast plate left behind, and heads towards the stairway. Probably to go upstairs and ready themself a bit more for human interaction, which you sympathize with. But you halt them halfway up the steps.

“Hold on,” you call out, and they halt. “Take your medication first.”

Their face droops when they realize that you’d caught them scooping the pills into their palms whilst they were eating; you didn’t want to say anything outright, is all. But you know that they hate the pills; the warped perception you’ve allowed to sprout and burrow into their minds about the colored tablets can be its own hassle, but you know that it’s a tough habit to crack, speaking from experience. You yourself hadn’t approved of when David had approached you about getting back to your old practices of taking medication.

But you’ve been called out by your brother so many times that it’s ridiculous now to flush them away, or hide them under your tongue; David has your mother’s hawk-eyed vision. So taking your prescriptions isn’t a big deal for you anymore.

And you used to entrust Chara to take care of themself in that department. But they don't.

So for now, you ruffle the kid’s hair as they slump back into the chair, and you reach for orange juice to pour a glass. This can be your responsibility until they’re ready.

“There you go,” you murmur, giving them one more encouraging pat.

Chara just groans as they toss the handful into their mouth, then gulp down more than half of the juice. Their face momentarily scrunches, and you instruct them to open wide, and they do so. Nothing is hidden in any corners of the gums, or under the tongue, so you dismiss them.

“That wasn’t so hard, kiddo, was it?” you tell them. Chara just scowls.

“Don’t patronize me. I’d still rather not.”

“You know the routine, squirt,” David calls, then steals another slice of bacon from your dish as he walks by. “It’s not like No-Fingers over here is fond of meds either.”

You cast him a filthy glare while he hurries off into the safety another room. _He’s never going to let that go, is he?_

But Chara only provides the smallest chuckle, and you all dispatch to prepare for the day ahead.

-

It’s a good thing that David suggested doing something eventful—although you’d never verbally admit it. But the creaking despair in your bones indicates that had you not exercised enough, you would be in a much worse state than now. Your nerves are shot and the more you keep them from wallowing in their demise, the better.

You’ve piled into David’s truck with Lady in the back, who's being escorted by Chara to help them move a bit easier in crowds. You peek over to see them picking at the tufts of the dog’s fur, staring out the window with a thoughtful gaze.

Neither of you have ever gotten used to people. A few within radar are acceptable allies, but the rest…with their anonymous faces, and sealed motives, are all a latent predator. And the last thing you need is motivation for a kill.

David snaps all of you out of it with blasted tunes over the radio, with crappy songs neither of you contend to but he ignores all protests.

“I swear to god,” you grumble, face in your hands, “you do this _all_ the _fucking_ time.”

“Trying to keep you on your toes, hermano!” he crows. The music blares in your eardrums and digs into your skull.

“And why do _I_ have to suffer?” Chara calls out, looking just as irritated as you.

“Because I like you, kid,” David replies smugly. “You’re easily a favorite of mine. You got spunk.”

“Don’t take that as a compliment,” you advise over your shoulder. David, luckily, turns down the music enough to assuage any upcoming headache. His awareness of your sensitivities makes you slightly-less angry with him.

You arrive at the market a short time later. It’s an outdoor facility, surrounded by a few passersby and local farmers selling crops. You’ve been here so many times, and yet as you attempt to identify every human being in this area your heart pounds.

Chara hops out of the car, with Lady unleashed and trailing behind them obediently. They seem more eager to inspect the food around them, but their face masks a steady reproach you see flitting across their gaze. This makes your brother the most relaxed of you all—and the dog doesn’t count.

“Peter!” He slaps hands happily with a (thankfully) familiar face, grinning ear to ear. “How ya’ been, man?”

Said farmer—young, local, married, harmless—nods with a similar grin. “Doing well, actually! A lot more people coming up than usual.”

Your fingers twitch. Your nerves falter a beat when Peter glances over at you, and his clear surprise indicates that he’d expected David to come alone. As he tends to do—neither you nor Chara are distinguished for your social aptitude. But he smiles fiercely.

“Heya! This is your bro, right?” Peter turns to David for a second for clarification, but even without an answer he reaches out to shake your hand politely. “We’ve met a couple of times, but I can never remember your name.”

 _Thank god._ You extend a hand regardless, wincing at his tightened shake. “I, uh…” Panic settles in, hesitating. “Name’s, uh…Shawn…”

You ignore David’s bewildered glare as Peter’s face enlightens. “Ah! Gotcha. Well, nice to see you again, Shawn.”

“Likewise…”

He leaves you be, and from behind you hear Chara snicker. You’re about to whip around and spew out something petty at your defense when David’s hand touches your shoulder, grabbing your attention.

“You’re well aware that you can stop renaming yourself every time we go someplace, right?” he says, but he’s not as cross as you’d supposed for him to be, given by his tightened features. He seems more upset, if anything. “No one here is gonna hurt you.”

_You don’t know that._

But you just shake off his grip, shaking your head with self-censure. “I know.”

David has tried to comfort your paranoia the best he’s able, but even with his devoted assurances, it seems no match for your quaking heart, ever-beating. And the monster consistently chewing on your self-esteem. And the spiders spiraling underneath your blood.

People will always be these unknown creatures, ready to pounce and aim for your throat. With weaponry and tracking devices all hidden beneath their clothing.

David claps your shoulder, bringing you back to where you’d begun to daydream with your eyes pinpointed on a pile of melons. “You think you’re up for helping me move a couple of crates, _Shawn?_ ”

You wish you could scowl, but you have to tease a smile with David’s mischievous tone, lacking conviction. “Whatever you want, man. You’re the one that dragged me out here.”

Chara pokes into the conversation cheekily. “Can I have a fake name too?” they ask.

You brother sniffs. “Depends on the fake name, I guess.”

“Hmm,” they trace their finger along their chin a moment in thought, then snaps their fingers. Their eyes are sparkling playfully. “How about Cameron Longheart?”

You fight back a grin; you know that they’re doing this to make you feel more at ease. And even though that’s not their responsibility, it still loosens the load.

“Very enigmatic,” you admit with a nod, encouraging Chara to split their lips with a smirk. “I approve.”

Chara salutes with exaggeration. “Thank you, sir!”

“You both are ridiculous,” David sighs, but he looks just as regated as you. “But I have to admit, you’ve chosen quite the name, Longheart.”

“If you need me, Lady and I will be eyeing the homemade candles,” Chara announces, and then they walk off with a compliant border collie in tow. You’re glad that Lady seems to have appointed herself as a service pet of sorts for Chara in social situations.

David makes a soft noise of content at watching the kid skip over to the candle section as stated, then summons you over to where he’s walking back to where Peter is residing. “Alright, Shawn. Let’s put those eight-digit hands to good use.”

In time, you manage to do as told and help Peter out with moving a few heavy crates around his section of the market. Your brother takes a quick break to go out and buy the vegetables he’d been absorbed in, and you’re left to Peter and a few of his co-workers for company.

“So, Shawn,” Peter begins, and you look up, having claimed your identity of the day with acceptance. “Haven’t seen you much. You doing alright?”

_Act natural. Play it cool. He’s just asking to be nice, he doesn’t really care…_

“Uh, yeah. I’m…I’m okay.”

Your reward for lying is an easy smile. Peter sweeps away your status and hands you some lighter loads to accommodate your achy wrists. “Glad to hear it,” he says amicably. Then he points to a wooden bar a few feet away, housing more boxes yet to be unwrapped. “Just take this over there and put it on the floor.”

“Sure.” You do as told, stepping over a few stray items along the ground, and find relief when you look over in the direction Chara and Lady had walked and find them only a few stands away, with Chara fondly overlooking a stack of candles and goodies. They catch your eye and giddily wave; if they’re having fun and within your sights, then you have every reason to relax now.

Your shoulders slacken as the bricks once pressing on your muscles begin to decompress. The more you’re swathed in your environment, familiarizing yourself with the people around you and becoming an asset rather than a burden, the more comfortable you begin to feel. Even in a public area.

One of Peter’s guys tries to form an idle conversation with you as you tidy up. “So uh, you David’s brother?”

Still an odd title you feel like you don’t fit into. But you answer, “Yeah.”

You’re barely listening; you’re watching Chara marvel at a section at the far end of the market. It’s handstitched material, by the looks of it, but you can’t tell from here what it is specifically.

“Name’s Carlos,” the guy introduces, and you shake hands; his hold is too stiff for your liking. “I noticed you over there helping my cousin. You’re stronger than I thought.”

You turn to him with an arched brow, and he sputters, “I-I didn’t mean like—! ...Shit, bad wording.”

“A little, yeah,” you admit, half-interested. You know that people are always tripping over themselves, attempting to be sympathetic towards your disabilities. But it’s not necessary. There’s no need for anyone to act like you’re not already aware of your corporeal faults.

“Well,” Carlos chuckles nervously whilst rubbing the back of his neck, “sorry about that, man. I’m not exactly a poet with my wording. I just meant that you’re really strong and you look— wait, that’s even weirder. That implies that I was checking you out. But I wasn’t.”

“Uh-huh.” You fiddle with one of the tomatoes in Peter’s crates.

“N-no, really! I-I…” In defeat, Carlos sighs. You look over to see his face a bursting into a darker red. “Fuck. I made this super weird. Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m…gonna go over there now.”

“Okay.”

“Okay…”

As he’d claimed, Carlos saunters away, shoulder hunched. You continue to make the occasional peek over at how Chara is doing; they’ll most likely head back over soon, because you know that they don’t like being in a public place alone for large chunks of type. Even if they have Lady, they cling to your backside so tightly that you’re starting to think it might be an issue.

David takes over Carlos’s role of annoying the hell out of you when he heads over a props an elbow on the bar you’re leaning on. “How’s that tomato feeling, man?” He looks down at the said tomato you’re kneading absently with one palm; in shame you put it back.

“Dude, did you see the way that guy was talking to you?” Your brother elbows your arm and points over to where Carlos is now occupying himself with hastily talking to a woman you don’t know. “He was totally checking you out.”

You scoff. “No he wasn’t.”

“He so was!” You get another playful shove. “His face was beet-red and he kept stammering when talking to you. That has all the makings of a high school crush.”

Chara is making their way back over to you now. You stand up straighter as they walk over, popping your back with a stretch. “Maybe I'd care if I was still in high school then,” you dismiss to David, fighting to close the subject.

But your stubbornness only promotes a huff. “Oh, c’mon! Carlos is a nice guy, and you’re an asshole. Opposites attract! And besides, throwing _something_ into the ring is better than being scared of everybody.”

You snap around. “The hell are you getting at.”

David sighs; it’s one of those very unnerving sigh that advocates a subject that’s been tossed and turned multiple times, but can never seem to be pacified. You feel something cold run down your spine at how somber your brother’s gaze becomes.

“How long have you lived with me?” he asks you, but he already knows the answer, you’re sure of it. He’s been counting since day one.

But you know where this is going. It always goes like this.

You look down at your shoes, your muscles morphing into cumbersome lead. “Two years,” you mutter.

“And you’re still afraid of getting out there?”

“You mean sexually or…—”

“Christ, no, Miles. I’m talking about in general.”

You don’t have to look up to know that your brother is combing his unruly hair with calloused fingers. A sign of frustration; commonly used when he’s talking to you over anybody, oddly enough.

“Dude, I keep telling you all the time that nothing out here is out to get you,” David persists, but you’ve noticed a gentler undertone creeping into his voice. “This is one of the friendliest towns on the map, I swear. And you’ve gone undetected for so long now that I’d be pretty damn shocked to have a town crier swooping in and telling people that you’re some sort of psychopath.”

You don’t respond.

This time, in regards for keeping your conversation at a minimum volume, David murmurs softly, “I just want you to know that this place is safe. Everywhere and everyone in this town is safe and they deserve a little respect for the compassion they’ve shown towards you and the kid. You’re welcome here. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

“You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

A loud crash jolts your heart into the walls of your ribs, and you backtrack with a wild feat of panic. You both spin around at the same moment to find that Carlos has spilled a ton of Peter’s supposed squash all over the floor of the market. Everyone releases their own breath of annoyance at now having to clean up the bruised vegetables.

“Aw, _Christ,_ man!” Peter and a couple of his friends jog over to displeasingly eye the scene; Carlos dips his head under his cousin’s glare. “You better hope for your own sake that it didn’t bang up any of ‘em too badly!”

The group scurries around the squash to place them delicately back into the tipped crate, and you watch on with the curiosity of one observing mice scampering around a plate of food.

“Welp,” David claps his hands together and exhales, “better go help them tend to the dropped veggies. They ain’t gonna sell themselves, y’know.”

You observe Carlos from afar; if he was attempting to flirt like David had said, you can’t say that you harbor any returning enchantment at watching him on his knees, anxiously throwing what he can into the box. Besides, you can’t say you've been successfully flustered since your days in the apartment, when you had _somewhat_ of estimable company.

It’s still a rough spot to touch upon, so you just choose not to. The last thing you need right now is to date any guy you meet for fun; they don’t know what they’re getting themselves into.

“'Sup.” You turn to see Chara right behind you, but mindfully keeping their distance in case you’d freaked out upon their sudden arrival. Thankfully, you’re accustomed to their abrupt entries.

You spot a tiny kitten plushie— obviously stitched by hand—with buttoned eyes, resting in their hold. 

“Did you buy that?” you ask them. You get an eyeroll in return.

“Wow. Nothing gets past you, journalist.” Chara thumbs their gift; you have to say it’s very cute. “I think I’ll name it Buttons. Self-explanatory, though.”

Lady nudges your hand to request a mandatory scratching, and you do as demanded with rubbing your fingernails along her ears. Her tail wags eagerly. You have to chuckle a little as Lady squirms into your hand’s grip as you continue to pet the dog.

It’s Chara’s uncharacteristic silence at the canine’s playfulness that makes you look back up at them. 

Their eyes are distant and looking over at the end of the marketplace. For some reason, the expression wilting their facial features and darkening their gaze makes your blood run cold.

A wave of distress washes over your body completely; like an ignited flame, you feel the anxiety you’ve struggled to button up over years of recovery slowly spew out into the open. Your knuckles whiten; your jaw stiffens. It’s hard to hide the stilted demeanor sinking in as you reach out to comfort them.

“Kid?”

Chara turns to you quickly, but the ferocity of their obscure stare unbridles your composure.

“Do you ever feel followed?” they ask, tone discreet.

It only takes a simple question, apparently; the world is slowly collapsing around you, and all the peace and tranquility you could ever build around this sanctuary are crumbling.

Experience of bottling up your worst fears comes in handy, keeping your voice balanced when you reply, “Sometimes. But it’s just a feeling, not a fact.”

“Hm…” Chara observes the calm setting of the farmer’s market around them, like they’re seeing it for the first time. They chew on your answer for a moment before they dismiss their odd behavior entirely. Self-deprecatingly, they explain, “I guess it’s just weird. Lately I’ve felt so out of place that I expect…I don’t know, something to happen.”

“Like what?” you prompt.

“I don’t know. Something bad."

You stifle a gulp in your throat as the insects burrow deeper into your skin. Summoning terrible, bad things to boil in your blood. And you try to chalk it up as your average case of paranoia, but the reasoning that your everyday worry is being shared with someone else— someone who is in fact your equal when it comes to compulsory suspicion—is making your spine crawl.

“I’m being stupid again,” Chara continues when you don’t offer more assurances. They dance their fingers along the patched pelt of Buttons. “I should know better by now than to spout some gut-wrenching bullshit like that. It doesn’t fly over well with fate, I’ve learned.”

Instinctively you shake your head. “You’re not being stupid.”

“Thanks for the reassurance, _Mom,_ " they snort, but you catch a glimmer flicker along their eyes at your encouragement. You know that your words are starting to stick, somewhere.

Then they look over at the men inspecting the squash in the crate; now they’re polishing them frantically with their own shirts in a sloppy attempt to assuage the fall.

“Oh, what happened?” they ask.

David answers them from afar. “Carlos dropped the box. Now we have to sell squished squash.”

“He squashed the squash?” Chara jokes.

“Hey! I don’t pay you to sit around and one-up my humorous comments.”

“Yeah, because I’d run you dry by the end of the week."

You stifle a chortle at the banter, but manage to keep your involvement to just a smirk directed at your brother.

“Very funny,” David says, sounding subtlety impressed by the kid’s backbone. “Now are you gonna sit around and crack jokes with Miles or can you come help set up shop?"

Chara throws back their head and sighs loudly. “Fiiiiine.”

They trod over to the men, leaving you to think about their statements of foreboding. And after they handed you Buttons to keep track of until their chores are complete, you fondle the plushie as you look around the farmer’s market.

It’s still hard to find yourself accepting that this is where you live. This is your home now, whether you like it or not. But you’re still not sure what to think.

Chara’s remark tore open a stitch in your reality, making you face the facts once more: that this is all _temporary._ And you can _try_ to keep running from Murkoff and everything else you left behind when you ran off, into the unknown, but it’s not the answer.

It’s not enough for you. And you’ve never been the type to shy away from the rotten answers the world provides.

You turn away and indolently watch your brother and his friends talk with the kid, who has a smile that isn’t too strained as they joke around and help out with the store. But the faces around you have become a spring of mockery, and suddenly you don’t feel like harboring the front desk anymore.

Maybe you’re just being selfish, as usual. Everyone seems happy. And there’s no evidence to show that Murkoff is anywhere close to finding you.

_Why change anything?_

-

You let out a breath you feel has been stocked in your lungs from your time socializing; and you sink down into the familiar, worn couch in the living room.

David and Chara join you, looking equally exhausted. Even with his grocery bags in hand, David flops onto one side of the couch, while you take the other. Chara sighs as they cram next to you.

“Jeez,” your brother begins, “I did _not_ expect business to be so lively today. I really appreciate all your help."

“Yeah, well, you definitely owe us,” you sigh, brushing a few slickened strands of hair out of your face. You could go for a shower right now.

David braces himself as he stands up first; Chara immediately flings themself over to where your brother once sat. As if summoned, Lady hops near where the kid is sitting, almost kicking you off the couch as you give a surprised curse.

“Well, if you guys help me out with unpacking the food, maybe we can go out to eat—?”

Both you and Chara groan with disapproval.

David’s brow arches insolently. “Oh yeah. I keep forgetting that you’re both clinical hermits.”

“Fuck off,” you grunt, then try to reach for the television’s remote. “How ‘bout you cook up something and we’ll call it even?”

Clearly you’re chafing your brother’s patience, but it appears that it’s all in good nature. He waits a moment for your declaration to settle in before he finally yields, “Alright, alright. I’ll see what I can make.”

“Thank you!” Chara calls to him as he walks away. Lady hops off the couch to go and join David in the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah. I still need you guys to help me unpack the food in here.”

You both take a moment to rest your limbs—yourself especially, since your braces are beginning to wane on your bones and you really need to relax your stingy mucles—before you both make a break for the kitchen table, where David has expectantly placed the bags.

As you unpack, you reflect on this normalcy. Chara is happy, and your relationship with your brother has started to restore. This is a captured moment in time where your dark thoughts are ridded, if only for a second; the amity of the room stems from the people inside of it, seeping out into the open. And while you’re still recovering from your delusional episode, you can make comfort appear from the little laughs you all share, the unifying tiredness between you, and the smell of something homecooked being prepared.

It's all here. Everything is.

_Why leave?_

…Why are you still thinking about this?

You finish up and eventually get a chance to stretch out your arms a little while flicking the television on to something local—you've limited a lot of cable access, thank god. Then you lay out and practice some techniques Carla helped you research a while back when helping out your limbs so they don’t hurt like a bitch in the mornings.

It’s also heavily embarrassing, because the last thing you need is to be mistaken for someone doing yoga. Which Carla has baited you into performing a couple of times, and you _hate_ it.

All that aside, you feel a bit more refreshed and your muscles feel less like a wet ball of paper when David calls you in for dinner. Seems to be leftover ropa vieja from Sunday’s dinner, but David always seems to work well with cold dishes reheated, so you’re not surprised to bite in and find the meat smothered with seasoning. Just like how Mom used to make it, though.

After a while of monitoring Chara’s consumption of the meal, you allow them to head on upstairs and finishing up in solitude upon their request, entrusting them to not flush anything down the toilet or vomit everything back up again. But they’re grateful for your permission; you know that extroverted activities wear them out and that they need time to fully recharge from a long day’s work. They tempt Lady to come with them through hovering some stray scraps above her nose and leading her away from the table.

And that leaves you to finish up the ropa vieja and rice with your brother.

The quiet isn’t tense anymore. Not the way it used to be, at least. You suppose you can count your blessings for that one; seems like ditching everything in D.C. and Leadville really worked out in rekindling an old companionship.

But David’s eyes are pointedly staring at you; a sign for when he’s dissecting your thoughts and is about to bring all the ugly insecurities you stuff away into the open. You shuffle underneath the table.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he prompts.

_There it is._

You pick at your food in a way that would make your mother antsy. “That’s a wasted penny,” you murmur to your dish.

Your brother’s tone becomes sharpened, inquisitive. “I know you pretty well, bro. I can see that something’s bothering you.” You open your mouth to make a smart comment before he adds on, “I mean, aside from the usual shit that’s always bothering you.”

You stifle a forlorn sigh of defeat. But you’ve been slowly breaking down walls and learning that maybe some should have been reconstructed a long time ago. You explain:

“I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do. About anything. Like, this place. You keep…telling me that this is all okay but…I don’t _feel_ like it is. Or that it’s supposed to be.”

David abandons his dish and entwines his fingers together, leaning his chin atop his hands. His gaze is intently following along, and you continue:

“You say that this is home. That this can be a home, but… There’s just…so much that I ran away from.” You shove your fork down onto the half-eaten plate, startling yourself with the harsh noise of the impact. But you cross your arms and look out into the darkening sky through a window. A window that belongs to a house that shelters you continuously from the things waiting outside, in the dark and beyond.

“I feel like a fucking coward," you snarl. It’s unsettling, the growl that itches to bury itself into your tongue. “Like I don’t _deserve_ to sit here.”

“You’re not a coward,” David intervenes, but his tone is derived of any sort of pity-driven assurance. “Just because you feel like you don’t deserve to be safe and recovering doesn’t mean that the feeling is true.”

“You don’t get it,” you snap, then flatten your voice. “I just… I feel like I haven’t resolved anything. Like I need to…”

“Need to…?” David compels.

“…I don’t know.”

There’s a small moment between you both as you arrange your own answers wordlessly. But your blood and nerves are shuddering as you stare out into the trees, the mountains, the sky.

You don’t deserve any of this. You can think of so many people you’ve failed and left to wither away in your wake. Waylon, Jackson, even Holly…

_The Dreemurrs..._

You shake your head like you’re clearing your brain of a bad dream.

David finally speaks, “You could always go back.”

You have to let a laugh ring loose in the empty kitchen. “Back to what? An apartment that they’ve probably quarantined like I’m infected with the fucking plague or something?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” David stands and reaches for his finished plate. “Look, you’ve told me a lot about what happened back there. And it all sounds really fucked up. I have no clue what you’re going through or experiencing, and I _haven’t_ known for the last two years you’ve been here.”

He heads to the sink to wash his plate, but he’s still talking to you from over his shoulder. “But I’m not you. So in the end, Miles Upshur is gonna do whatever he feels he needs to do. Because I’ve never known a single damn person on this planet that could ever tell him otherwise.”

The… _somewhat_ compliment, rests on your heart and you store away the confidence you feel yourself gaining from his words for later.

“Unless we’re talking about Chara,” David adds, and you look up. His back is turned to you but you know he’s smirking. “Because good God, my man, I have _never_ seen you be such a softie around anybody but that kid.”

You scowl. “I’m not a softie.”

“Yeah right, Mr. ‘get your ass back in this house and put on a jacket or you’ll get sick’.”

“It was _cold_. And they were recovering from a fever; any _logical_ human being wouldn’t want a child to get sick.”

“Softie,” David sings again. You refuse to play his games, so you just brood instead.

But the act is quickly dropped. “Look, all this to say, just do what you need to do. But also, do what’s best for the kid. Because it’s not just about you anymore. And don’t give me some half-assed excuse that Chara can just stay here forever until this all blows over,” David interjects as you try to argue, “because we _both_ know that they’re gonna follow you wherever you go, with whatever you decide to do. You’re a package deal. But, you’re also the adult. So do what's right."

You frown heavily at the prominent burdens you feel yourself rekindling. “I wish you weren’t so fucking on-the-dot with everything."

Your brother chuckles as he scrubs the last of his chicken down the drain. “I like to think I know you pretty well, hermano. So I say what I can to get that head out of your ass.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

“No problem.” He grins, and you fight the urge to naturally grin back.

His advice swirls in the pit of your stomach, where all your disarrays settle, and you cash in the half-finished plate of ropa vieja to be washed. You know your mother would disapprove, but you’re not hungry anymore.

-

After a hot shower, you're able to snag your brother’s computer and log into your email to check for any updates in the town. For obvious reasons, you can’t use your old email address anymore, so you set up an account, fake identity and all, for private uses. Only a select few have knowledge that it exists, and it’s often so they can ask for your help around the town. You and your brother have made a bit of a status as a result of having a fairly-maintained farm.

Briefly popping your knuckles, you scroll through some spam as your mind travels elsewhere. You think about your latest discomfort—which is more explicit than usual—when encountering the townsfolk. You think about your career withstanding as David’s helper around the farm. You think about Chara, and how happy they’ve become as they grow into this new skin of theirs.

And you think about yourself. Without teetering too far into past memories, for fear of provoking something at this unkindly hour, you think of Leadville. Of Jackson. Of Waylon and yourself talking at the diner.

All of that can’t just be for nothing, right?

...Whatever. Not like any of this will be solved until you get your ass in motion. And, judging by your former episodes of having to be productive when it comes to emotional confrontation, you doubt this will be solved overnight.

As you’re scrolling through, your thoughts roiling around in your brain, you notice a new email from someone you don’t know, sent around this afternoon. Entitled, “READ NOW.” Which is quite unsettling within itself. But it’s probably a false alarm, you think; probably advertising learning how to get smart.

You click on it.

And something in you stops.

 _June 25, 2016_  
_From: 394888883320@mutemail.com_  
_To: withoutapaddle@gmail.com_  
_Subject: READ NOW_  


_THEY KNOW YOU’RE HERE. DON’T STAY IN ELLISTON IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU. THEY WANT YOU AND THEY WANT THE GIRL. GET OUT THE MINUTE YOU CAN. IT’S NOT SAFE THERE_

_—S_

Your fingers warble against the keypad. Your breath hitches. Every blackened thought you’ve been harnessing breaks loose, collapsing your lungs and heart.

You'd asked before: _why leave?_

...Perhaps this is as best a tangible reason as any.


	2. pick a place and die there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alt: 'when I take something out it all falls down.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that Chara is written with untreated bpd. Warning for implied self-harm/self-care issues, potential codependency, unreliable narration, and body dysphoria.

It’s interesting how sacred David’s farm has been as of late. You haven’t lived here very long, and moving wasn’t the _most_ fun you’ve ever had. Hiding out in a shabby, ramshackled house in some neighborhood in Montana and transitioning to a secondhand farmhouse wasn’t easy.

But you can’t say you’re discontent, either. You didn’t have a lot to leave behind in the first place, so the introduction to farm animals and a land barren of Murkoff’s grasp was heavenly, compared to your past homes. The chores keep you busy, and the daily allowance David kindly set up for you makes the disjointed understanding of profit become more aligned with your philosophies.

It’s the small things around here that keep you occupied. And as long as you’re not immersed in your thoughts for too long, then you’re probably okay.

Another plus about being in the middle of nowhere is the forest out back. It’s accessible and thick with enough trees and underbrush to keep you outside for hours. You remember when you were younger, and you and Asriel had always dreamed about building a treehouse sometime, when you both were old enough to be entrusted with the tools to do so.

The woods have never been anything but a safe haven to you. In spite of all the creepy stories you’ve read, where the trees are a blackened ambience for the inner sanctions of evil, you can’t say you share that perspective. They’ve never done anything to harm you; not that everything else has, anyway. And they’re quiet, buzzing with only a few happy insects and birdsong. Besides, your vision doesn’t really give you the opportunity to fill in the gaps of ‘what-ifs’ during the night.

Days pass and often they’re spent with a trickling silence, resplendent in its being. Not long ago it would have been hell just to convince yourself to step outside, and sometimes hours would be lost to your crying and hysteria over an illusory enemy.

Today is one of those days you would’ve most certainly been found huddled into a tree’s stump, or tangled in the branches above, reading some antique novel you’d plucked from the shelves. But due to a troublesome hen this morning that had managed to wriggle out of the cage this morning, it doesn’t seem to be on the agenda.

Sure, David hasn’t ever yelled at you, but you’re not about to risk anything over a missing chicken. You know he adores his animals as much as you, and your reputation with him hasn’t been soiled as of yet. Favorably, it should kept that way.

You tiptoe through the brush, slinking through with cotton feet as you hear the calm skittering of a small creature nearby. It sounds too nitpicked for a squirrel, and birds more often hop along in sudden splashes of movement. But these footsteps sound hesitant, inexpert to the environment around them.

“There you are,” you whisper. On cue, you gingerly peek around the tree you’ve pressed up against to find the bobbing head of Cinnamon through the leaves, pecking at something on the ground. By the sound of her quiet squawking and puffed feathers, she appears distressed.

You don’t want her to skitter off, but it’s inexperience that pauses your scheme. You’ve never had a hen escape before, but you suppose that striking in rapid fashion would only cause entropy.

So you quietly melt into the area, hoping that Cinnamon will turn her head but her back is to you. You make no harsh clamors as you move, and that’s from foreknowledge of learning when to be torpid with secrecy and when to act.

When you’re near Cinnamon enough to possibly scare her, you sink to the earth and dance your fingers along the leaves masking the ground. The noise catches her attention, and to your relief, her only response is a curious cluck.

You smile when the hen waddles her way closer to you, but you make no move to soothe the dirtied feathers. She was always the jumpier of the bunch. “You shouldn’t be out here, you know,” you tell her. “The woods is no place for poultry. Silly Cinnamon.”

Cinnamon chitters, seemingly with approval. She looks around like she’s just realized how far she’s wandered.

You straighten yourself back up and look down at the hen. It’d taken a while to scavenge for her, but you can be patient. And you know how these woods operate; you’ve been in here so many times before.

“C’mon then.” You manage to scoop Cinnamon into your hold without so much as a twitch. “Let’s get you back home.”

The clearing isn’t too far from the farm, you remember; and right above is a pathway that’s been shaped by past owners of these fields. You’re not afraid of getting lost.

You walk along, breathing in fresh air that greatly contrasts the stifling indoors. Even when you were trapped in Mount Massive, yearning for escape, the moment you were bathed with raindrops, no matter how terrified you were, the deadened scent you were lumbering around was immediately waterlogged out of your system. There’s something so cleansing about the outside; perhaps your claustrophobia has an impact on your opinion, but that’s a trauma you’ll keep under wraps for now.

As you’re trudging through prickled vegetation, and occasionally tripping over an unpleasant twig or vine, Cinnamon begins to protest. She twists and turns in your steady grip, which worries you for a moment. You stop your journey and remove one arm to stroke her ruffled feathers.

“Aw, hey,” you murmur in hushed tones, “What’s the matter, lil’ chick?”

A set of footsteps crunching somewhere near you gets your heart thumping instantly. The old anxiety you’ve felt during isolation peels back and makes you feel more exposed than ever.

You clutch onto the chatty hen even tighter, attempting to shush the frightened animal but with no avail.

It’s like the whole world has been silenced with a commanding sweep. Even the insects chirp at an unsteady pace. The environment has the odd aura of death.

…Wait.

_Oh._

The heartstrings you’ve felt banging on your ribcage become looser when you recognize what’s happening. He’s probably taking one of his nature walks again; that always seems to be enough to make the spirited ether bow to his strides. You almost smirk at the thought, even if it’s not really that funny.

Cinnamon doesn’t seem to have caught on yet; although her chattering has quieted, you can practically feel her vibrating with distress in your arms. You continue to rub your fingers into her hackle and back as you walk along, purposely making your feet quiet along the clustered forest floor.

Sure enough, you spot the devil of the woods. He’s pacing along the beaten path, but you can tell right away that he’s negligent to restraining his aching legs (there’s a hobble in his step but, like always, he pretends it’s not there). But his face is alert, perhaps meaning that he’s looking for something.

Gently you set Cinnamon down to the floor, and she scurries close to your legs once she’s released. If she runs off, you can probably catch up with her.

For now, you focus on your target.

Your hand reaches for the sheath on the left side of your belt; you’d managed to snatch the knife away from David’s desk before he could even miss it, and you’re going to relish in the moments you have left with it before it’s taken from you.

Sinking back downward, you ready yourself for the pounce-and-kill strategy to be clearly mapped out in your brain. Adrenaline kicks in as you realize your target is farther away than when you’d started plotting your evil plans.

You step in behind, but you make the calculated mistake of crackling a bundle of leaves underfoot.

Miles whips around with that installed panic twisting and stiffening his features, and at his most vulnerable moment you’re spotted.

“Wha—”

“Attack!!”

You don’t strike as sharply as you might have with David, given that Miles is physically sensitive, and also just out of respect that you wouldn’t enjoy being ambushed without forewarning either. You just clamp onto one of his arms and hover the knife directed to the throat, but not close enough to have any injuries sustained should you make a false move.

Despite the clear shock you’ve predisposed, you watch the harsh expression on Miles’s face recede when he realizes you’re no threat. His eyes are brightened when you just continue to stick to him like a needy koala.

“Got you,” you giggle, then drop the knife away when you’ve felt you’ve established your domineering role.

Miles looks down at your hold on his jacket. “I feel like I’m supposed to be intimidated.”

“Asshole,” you grumble, theatrically unimpressed by his reaction. Then you detach yourself from his clothing and airily brush off your clothes. “You could at least _pretend_ to be in awe of my sneaking skills.”

He just looks down at you with one of those half-smirks he always seems to carry around in his pockets and slap on. “Fine. You _sorta_ scared the shit out of me. How ‘bout that?”

“I’ll take it,” you simper, and that only gives you a somewhat-disapproving expression in return, with no permanent sincerity behind it.

Then Miles’s gaze morphs as it lands downward. “Is that a knife?”

_Shit._

Feebly tucking it away, you drawl pathetically, “Um…nooooo?”

The frown you receive from your transparent lie is one of heavy disappointment. It makes something ugly twitch in a sour spot, but then you notice that maybe ‘disappointment’ may not be an appropriate emotion to coin. Perhaps ‘concern’.

“I was gonna give it back!” you protest, but it comes off as more of a childish whine. “I mean, sometime…”

Miles doesn’t budge when his brows furrow displeasingly. You shrink a little when he holds out an expectant hand.

“Aw, c’mon! I wasn’t going to—”

“You know the rules. No knives without supervision.”

_Yeah, because you think I’ll cut my throat open first chance I get…_

You don’t say it; you keep your tongue in your cheek when you hand the weapon over. Miles takes it without another word and stuffs it away for the time being.

It’s wise of him to think that you’ll go off the rails and do something harsh with your body; it’s not like you’re exactly in your right mind the last accounts you’ve had with something sharp in your hold. But it can get overbearing.

Still. You know he’s trying to help. Your parents wouldn’t handle your self-inflicted cuts this well.

Then you remember your curiosity upon the confrontation; it helps blockade your indignance for the moment. “So, why are you out here anyway? Here to enjoy the scenery?” It’s usually too late into the afternoon for any nightmares to promote Miles to hike around in the woods.

“No. Looking for you, actually.” His words tilt a moment in question. The austerity in his tone is long forgotten once the knife is discarded. “I thought you were with the hens.”

“I was,” you retort, planting your hands on your hips with a huff. “But Cinnamon ran off, so I had to find her.”

“Ah.” Miles looks around for a second. “So, did you find it?”

“She. And yes, I did. But I had to abandon her momentarily so I could attack you.”

“Fair enough.”

You’re relieved when a startled clutter pops out from behind, and Cinnamon ditzily wanders back into view. She’s only a few feet away and you scrape her back up so she has no chances of running off again. Thank god that chickens are kinda stupid.

“I have captured the hen!” you proclaim, holding up your specimen towards Miles as evidence. He takes it into account with broadcasted disinterest, but you see a small tugging along his lips.

“Great. Now we can have rotisserie for dinner as planned.”

“Noooo!” You know he doesn’t mean it, but the thought of ever having to boil one of your fowl friends makes you hug Cinnamon a little tighter to your heart. “Not funny!”

Your only response is a stifled laughter. More of a snort, really. But it’s nice to see Miles with a lighthearted expression, which he’s worn less and less lately. “Sorry,” he says. “But seriously, I’m out here because I’m your ride and you need to head to work.”

A archaic wave of laziness makes your shoulders slump. “Oh.” You’d be so busied with recapturing Cinnamon that you’d completely forgotten that you have a shift today.

Not that you truly mind. Sure, being employed means putting a temporary hiatus on the other activities you’d planned, such as reading and…maybe tree-climbing, or sleeping. But at the same time, the stability of chores and work, having things to do and places to be, can be beneficial. It certainly keeps the dawdling relapses at bay, should you have a moment to think too much about anything.

And besides, it’s not like your job sucks or anything. Carla is a nice boss, and her shop is dedicated to the one thing you feel you can do 90-percent right: crafts. You adore being surrounded by lush fabrics and cutesy designs and all the various art materials stocked up on the shelves. Plus, your more-than-gracious discount for cleaning floors and restocking allows you to knit and sew to your heart’s content.

Without further instruction, you fall in behind Miles and allow him to lead you and Cinnamon through the familiar walkway.

It’s always more abnormally quiet if you’re to accompany Miles on a walk in the woods than when you’re alone. Once upon a time, you remember when you’d tempted him to try and tame the Walrider, and the world around you hushed once it was summoned. So you’re smart enough to piece everything together; you know why Lady can shuffle a bit around him, or why new barn animals don’t like his presence.

Miles always says he doesn’t care about it. But then again, he says that about a lot of things.

Cinnamon twists in your hold as you walk side-by-side with him. Call it strange, but the silence and submission of the world around you keeps your securities locked in place. Both Miles and the Walrider are strong, as you’ve witnessed, and you’re not. But they’re also on your side.

“Hey,” you prod, “so…we’re getting new fabric for the shop sometime this month.”

Miles looks over at you with a spark of respectful notice. “Oh?”

“Y-yeah! It’s the kind I told you about,” you explain, smiling a bit. “It’s sort of a satin base, but Carla had mentioned that the fiber is a bit different? I don’t know, but she said it wouldn’t affect the stitching results. So maybe I could…make that pretty satin dress I saw in that magazine.”

You feel like you’re babbling too much and shut up a little. It’s just that talking about your interests can be…really cool, actually. But there are too many strings attached to social interaction— and others’ approval—that makes you squeamish.

“I’m sure that whatever you decide to do with the fabric will result in a mess in the living room regardless,” Miles indorses, but his tone is fond and it makes your internal knots loosen.

You have to smirk. “Well, that goes without saying.”

With Miles’s silent reassurance, you gabble on about textiles and artistry and who knows what else, all while wandering through the deadened forest and keeping Cinnamon docile while she’s in your arms. Your dialog is only sustained from Miles providing idle commentary to steer the conversation forward. You appreciate having someone regarding your hobbies with interest, and as you continue talking you feel lighter than air.

Eventually you trail out of the woods and approach the farmhouse, and you both spot the truck to be available for a drive. You better hurry before David calls it for the day to do…whatever he does. Probably go out and buy crop stuff, or however one runs a barn successfully. You’re just here for the animals.

You rush a frantic Cinnamon back into her coop as Miles insists that you hurry, and you manage to toss the hen into her home once you manage to reach the barn, panting and sweating through your jacket.

“Sorry!” You tell her when you unceremoniously push her inside, then run back to where you see Miles managing something in regards to the truck. You can’t see from this angle what he’s doing, but as you approach you notice his tightened features and it doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s cross about something.

In spite of your own breathlessness, you save up the air in your lungs after a moment’s rest to get close enough to ask, “Everything alright?”

You realize that he’s just adjusting some of the straps along the sides of the vehicle, which are usually occupied with some crates or any other furnishings that need to be transported. Seems like they don’t need to be used momentarily, but are more of a nuisance than anything; you can see how dangerously Miles’s snarl is growing.

“Oh, come _on!_ ” he snaps, ripping the straps away hastily and making such brutal movements that you jump back a little.

It’s not just that; he’s so stiff and unpleasant. It’s such a violent transition from the compliant behavior he’d carried throughout your hike. Like something has snapped and has yet to explode.

_What’s his deal all of a sudden?_

You step forward in a moment of pluck. “Alright, settle down tiger,” you advise mildly, but as you speak the first spikes of pain tighten Miles’s features and he withdraws like he’s touched a hot surface.

“Shit.” He hisses through his teeth as he calms the seemingly aching body that he’s enabled. You watch a little helplessly as he runs a hand along the binds on his wrists.

You really don’t want to think that you told him so, and most certainly you’re far from being authoritative in any scenario. It doesn’t stop you from asking, “Do you want me to drive?”

Despite the internal hindrances you can’t understand, Miles manages a breathless snort of amusement. “Without a permit? I think not.”

You huff. “It’s not like anybody in town has to _know_ that!”

He shakes his head as he straightens himself. “I’m not really in the mood to almost crash into a fire hydrant again. I’m fine, just get in.”

You grumble, masking any relief that he’s at least stable enough to joke around a bit. Climbing into the truck as instructed, you mutter a slightly agitated, “Spoilsport.”

“I heard that,” Miles chides, and he shuts the door behind you.

Admittedly, you’re always impressed at how Miles snaps back from a disabling moment much quicker than you ever could. It’s uncommon to see his composure so rampant in times you’re unprepared for a setback. You’ve only known him post-Mount Massive, and from snippets you’re able to obtain from David, you know that a lot of Miles’s former confidence has corroded, and reasonably so.

It’s off-putting to watch Miles comprise himself once more from the incident with a heavy sigh, and he buckles in with attention given towards his sore appendages. He’s just as strong as you’ve ever seen him.

The world outside dashes past you, smearing the greenery into the sky above. Montana is so serene and humble in its beauty; you wouldn’t mind having this scenery right beyond your door forever.

When you spot the first sightings of houses dotted along the plains, a warmth blossoms in your chest, like a renewed sensation of belonging. You don’t care how many times you’ve familiarized yourself with this tiny town; you’ll wear your pride on your sleeve for as long as you have; this is the first place you’ve been assured enough to call ‘home’.

There are a couple of faces you can distinguish when you pass by as the citizens bustle about in the sunny afternoon; they stop to chat or head into local stores to complete a mundane task. One neighbor even waves at your passing vehicle.

You’re protected here. David and Carla have both collaborated to ensure that your names won’t be showing up on any ‘Wanted’ posters; not in this town, anyway. And you and Miles have both established your own statuses amongst the locals, so you’d like to assume that the townspeople would at least double-take if they learned the truth somehow.

Carla’s shop is only a couple more blocks, and when you turn to Miles out of a nonchalant interest to pass the time, you realize his eyes are heavily glazed with thought.

You frown, with displeasure squirming into the fuzzy sensation of home and demolishing it almost instantly. You’ve seen similar looks portrayed on Miles’s face throughout the years you’ve spent with him, so you’re somewhat of an expert on deciphering grimaces and snarls and glares and anything else unpleasant promoted with facial features. Currently, the expression he’s wearing promotes heavy contemplation to the point of deterioration; he could suffocate in his thoughts and lose a steady grip on reality if he’s not careful enough.

Automatically, you’re called to react.

You gently prod Miles’s arm, cautious of his pain, in an attempt to get him grounded again; you have breathing exercises ready to recite if you must.

“Hey,” you call to him softly, and the clouds in his eyes manage to disband enough for him to flick his gaze towards your own. But a layer of intensity dwells beneath it, surprising you.

The eye contact only wavers because _someone_ has to make sure that the truck doesn’t crash into a pedestrian.

Miles leans back into his seat with a heavy sigh. You blink at his intense demeanor. “Something wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. Usually he at least attempts to say “No” or “Yeah, I’m okay”, or something else remotely positive—even if it blatantly couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Instead, after a minute of nerves crawling up your spine, he asks suddenly, “Do you like it here?”

You turn back to him, baffled. “What?”

Miles takes a moment to switch into the next lane before returning to his realm of guarded tension. “Do you like it here, in Elliston?”

You don’t even have to think twice about it. “Of course!” Fondly, you add: “It’s so different than any other place I’ve lived—even if that’s not saying much. It’s small, sure, but that makes everybody around us friendlier, I think! Everyone is so pleasant, and I like when Miss Dorris stops by the shop to give me sweets. And I like my job, and I love your brother’s farm, and…”

You stop because the haze fogging Miles’s pupils have worsened within the span of your nonsensical rambling, and you deflate because you’re not being listened to.

A raw sentiment of anxiety lurches your heart. “Are we leaving?” you ask, voice quaking.

Miles shakes his head after a long minute, albeit stiffly. “No.”

You sink into the seat with immediate relief. To be exiting the one place that never harmed you would be a death sentence. You’re blind to any of Murkoff’s current horrors (for once), and you wish you weren’t selfish in being thankful that you want to stay off their radar forever. Even if that means living in Elliston for the rest of your days. Never budging, never being truly noticed…

In the split second that the Dreemurrs cross your mind, your heartstrings sing out of tune, for a fleeting moment. You ignore it.

Still, the blank stare Miles carries is unwavering; when he stops the truck to drop you off, he continues to stare ahead. Like he’s seeing something you’re not.

“Why do you ask?”

He hesitates in the process. But eventually Miles looks over at you again, but he seems so tired. Like an indefinite clout is gnawing at him and he won’t tell you because you’re not old enough—or because it’s for the best, you don’t know; the excuses often merge together in your mind.

“No reason,” he finally tells you, sober in his words but his body posture suggests otherwise.

Then he reaches out to smooth some messy locks from your hair: a feat of reassurance. It’s a vague comfort you wish you didn’t feel safe in; he retracts once your eyes and mouth are cleared of the strands.

“Don’t worry about it, buttercup. Just head inside, you’ll be late for work.”

At the nickname, your worries soften. But you still manage an eyeroll. “Fine, whatever.”

You step out of the truck, relishing in the sight of Carla’s art shop. You glance over to thank you driver, and Miles just reminds you that he’ll come back around eight if you can’t get a ride from your boss.

“Yeah yeah, I’m a grown child, old man!” you tease, fighting a smile. “I can drive myself home at needed be!”

“You’re fourteen with no access to a car.”

“Hush.”

Miles just suppresses a chuckle. “Tell Carla I said hi.”

“'Kay.”

Then he drives off, and you watch the truck flip around a corner and towards the grocery store before you turn to walk inside.

It’s odd how the sight of your workplace has become more and more of a rare sanctuary to you. Yeah, working can be boring as hell, but the environments and the staff encircling one’s office can make a pretty big difference.

The bell chimes overhead when you step inside, and you’re immediately refreshed by the clean scent of natural chemicals, commonly used to spice up after a long day of redecorating. You’re just glad you weren’t called in for the day the whole place was refurbished; but admittedly, the place is looking fancier with the renovation. Numerous textiles line the walls, more yarn along the shelves (your personal favorite), and more items stocked up that others will surely find a use for aesthetically.

The minute you step inside the empty store, the curtains that mask the backrooms whip open, and Carla appears to greet you. When your presence is properly recognized, her eyes sparkle and she smiles like you’ve hung the moon. You easily find your own grin stretching your lips.

“ _¡Hola, Chara!_ ” she chirps, rolling her syllables along her foreign tongue. She walks the distance to come to the front and give you a short hug. " _¿Como estàs?_ "

You return it, slightly blushing. Smoothly, you reply, “ _Hola, Carla._ ” Then you falter, scrunching you brows as you attempt to remember the few Spanish translations David and Miles have assisted you with. “ _Estoy… ¿Bueno?_ ”

Carla shakes her head, somehow still maintain her friendly character. “No, the adjective ‘bien’ es better en that sentence. It is just proper grammar.”

“Oh.” You can’t help but shrink a bit. Spanish is so much easier to learn than Japanese, which you can toss around when it comes to a couple of phrases. Yet here you are, tripping over yourself. It’s a tad embarrassing.

But you’re rewarded for your efforts with another easygoing smile. “No worries, dearest. I know that Spanish es harder for some than others.”

Still, you feel a bit whipped at the evaluation. But Carla is sweet, and kind, and so many other things you had to wait a long time to apply to her. She’s what you’re not; she brightens the whole world when she walks into the room, and you just sweep the floors.

“Your clothes should be fine for today,” Carla remarks, upon inspecting your outfit; your boots are a bit mud-caked from the adventure with Cinnamon but it can be easily wiped off. “Your name tag is in the back?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Go on and get it now, dearest.”

She presses a peck to your forehead; even if her lip gloss left a mark, your bangs will cover it up just fine. Then you race towards the backroom to retrieve your lost possession.

This place really is starting to melt into something of a personal sanction. You’ve left so many things here on accident that Carla just stuffs them all in the back and awaits your return should you need the said item. It’s a nice town, though, and you trust the coworkers here. So you don’t mind discarding a few possessions around here, as long as nobody accidentally buys it.

But atop a couch cushion from the squished break room, you find it. In bold letters, encased in a shimmering badge: ‘Chara’.

It’s so nice to have your name on things.

Pinning your tag onto your jacket and restyling your long hair, you head back to get started.

-

The shop isn’t exactly a hot spot, so the day floats along without much disruption on the frontline. You idly sweep away dust bunnies and align shelves and occasionally someone will drift in and buy a knickknack. Passersby will walk along and see you through the mirror doing something of importance, and they wave at you. And you wave back.

Nicole is a coworker, and she’s nice and all, but very territorial on her cash register, so you don’t bug her very much. Sam is cool too, and he teaches you how not to get caught texting at work (which you can’t do anyway since you don’t have a phone, but it’s cool to learn ways to fuck with any sort of system). Judy and Lucas try to brush away all their chores to you; you’re not fond of them.

But the point is that it’s conversant. And you don’t mind having to talk to a customer about what type of yarn they should use or where the postcards are. You never mind because this is a routine, and you know the people and you know that this is all okay to enjoy.

Carla dotes on you furiously; you’re obviously the favorite of the bunch, and it took a long time for you to differentiate that this was because of _you,_ and not that you’re some pathetic child that wound up at her doorstep begging for mercy. She gushes over your accomplishments—however few are up for grabs—and you once heard her refer to you as an ‘Angel’, which you don’t understand. But she gives you nice things and you return the favor and she lets you off the hook for the more daunting tasks. It’s a reciprocated fondness you share.

Today isn’t busy in the slightest. And this eats away at your attention span so you resort to braiding someone’s hair, whether it be your own or a stray coworker. Nicole is the current victim of your ploy.

“You know, I feel like by now you would’ve asked what article I’m reading about,” Nicole says. And within context: you’re seated on a table and leaning on the register, plucking at Nicole’s hair while she reads some crappy magazine you have no interest in.

You shrug, even if she can’t see it. You form a fishtail within her dark locks. “I looked over and saw that they were interrogating some poor woman about her personal life. I’m not going to give those types of people my time.”

Nicole returns your shrug. “Yeah, I get that. Mostly I just read ‘em for the laughs. Like, it sucks that journalism has been reduced to venturing out to find some celebrity eating breakfast and having a big story about how they’re lazy or something like that.”

“A lot of people just do it for a paycheck. Which I can understand, but still. No one should have to expose anything they would rather keep private for the sake of dodging false accusations.”

“True that.”

You reach the end of Nicole’s hair and lock it in with a rubber band. “But not all writers are like that.”

Nicole flips the page, as though to answer your question, and you observe. “Yeah, I guess. Didn’t you mention your dad was something like this once?”

You heart skips, finding for multiple faults within her sentence. “Huh?”

“Y’know,” she drafts, “Your dad? You said he was some sort of writer or something?”

 _God, not this again._ Frustration pricks at your gut when you flip over rather harshly, more disappointed in yourself more than anything. “No,” you sigh loudly. “He’s not my dad, he’s a friend. And…yeah, he was a writer.”

How could you let something slip about Miles’s former career being anything that could be remotely associated with journalism? Surely you would have cleaned up that mess rather than to let it stew in the minds of listeners…

“Alright, whatev,” Nicole sighs, unfazed. She hasn’t looked up from her magazine once. “I mean, did he like it, or…?”

This is where you shut down. This is when your muscles clamp together and you turn to the floor. This is where you mumble, “I guess”, in the vaguest tone ever given. Because one hint of information that could link you both back to your old selves is just one anonymous lead away from having your asses back in Murkoff’s grubby little hands. As you’ve been told.

You hop away and pretend that you have an immediate duty to tidy up the necklaces out for display. Most of it is handmade, which you look at with admiration because Carla has promised to show you how to make jewelry whenever she has the spare time to do so.

It doesn’t seem like your presence is missed, since somehow after you’ve thrown yourself in Nicole’s peripheral vision with rushing to the necklace stand, her back is already turned to you and she’s splayed her magazine right where you’d been sitting. She doesn’t even thank you for the braid; it doesn’t get to you as much as it used to.

You fondle the objects, trying to herd the implications of Nicole’s simple question. It’s not like you _haven’t_ been barreled with people mistaking Miles for your relative—whether it be an estranged cousin or your dad. And it makes sense, you suppose; it’s not like people would be content with knowing a child was living with two adult men that weren’t related to them.

But it gets you every single time that someone asks that. You’d think that by now, people would realize the difference between a father and Miles Upshur.

Your thoughts conjoin with consciousness once your fingers dance along a specific necklace.

Shiny and golden. A simple concept and executed with nothing abstract in mind. Your thumb trails along the heart connected to the chain; a pendant with the words branded into the metal: ‘Best Friends Forever!’

Something cold drips into your heart. An age-old ache that hasn’t been tended to since pre-Mount Massive catastrophe.

Asriel tried to give you one of these, once upon a time. And it took you months to finally let him lock it around your neck so that you could match. And it took less than a second for the Murkoff administrators to snap it into a bag and throw it away.

Your fingertips tremble.

“Chara?”

You spin around once Carla descends on you zoning out and picking at some random necklace. The feeling subsides like a wave and you’re left to give some secondhand explanation for yourself.

You can’t help but hate the way that Carla is looking at you. Honeyed concern and sympathy for something she doesn’t know about, and it’s all genuine.

“Something is wrong, cariño?” she asks.

The fingers entwine with the chain one last time before you release the pendant and leave it be. Your throat feels clogged when you look at it.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, hardly believable to your own ears.

As expected, Carla doesn’t fall for it. But she doesn’t ask if you want to talk about it, or anything stupid like that; just gives you this half-frown that tightens the ends of her mouth, like she’s thinking over something. And then the wave of pity you feel emanated towards you passes once she reaches out to squeeze your shoulder.

“I understand,” she tells you. “If you want to talk, I’ll be here.”

A sour feeling twists into your gut. God, why’d that stupid necklace get to you?

You just nod, and you’re left alone. She heads over to Nicole to discuss something or other, business-wise.

It should be easier by now, you would have thought. The hole in your chest, residing from your unexpected departure with the Dreemurrs, is stretching into something unavoidable that you can’t tuck away anytime soon. You know that you’d been planning on one day informing your past adopted family that you’re alive; what happened after you’d been knocked unconscious and sent over to Pharmatech is an enigma. They could be thinking you’re _dead._

...But it’s been _years;_ wouldn’t reappearing out of nowhere just add insult to injury? Maybe you were right, in that you were holding the Dreemurrs back this whole time. Maybe they’re better off without you.

Maybe you’re just too cowardly to step out of your comfort zone and figure out the truth…

It’s a miracle sent from above when a customer appears out of the blue and asks you for some tips about knitting with a crochet hook, and your attention is swept away from the heart necklace. 

You decide to let your grief stew into your skin further, like seeds; it’ll burst out as either flowers or weeds, but right now you can procrastinate a bit longer.

-

Once you clock out, Carla informs you that she can take you home, and offers you a trip down to the drug store to get a small treat. Not like you’ll say no to that.

You discard your worries centered around that cursed pendant once you unclip your name tag and step outside, where the sky is a vivid orange and pink. The activity within the town has deduced to a hushes murmur, if anything. And somewhere far beyond you can hear animals chirping.

Carla steps out with a sigh, like she’s relieving an age-old ache by letting her hair down and breathing in deeply. There were a few customers that came by that upheld her certain questions, and like always Carla responded with upmost dignity. But you know that with certain subjects, allowing a slip of the tongue to affect her English-speaking can be a bit suffocating.

So both of you just relax simultaneously, but for different reasons. The drug store is refreshing in that the man behind the counter is pleasant, and Carla coaxes you into buying one treat for yourself. You both grab a bottle of marble soda and head out with your food.

You munch on your chocolate sweets while Carla pops in the marble to open her strawberry-flavored drink. It’s then that she tells you: “You are awfully quiet.”

Fiddling with the items in your hand, you reprimand your answer for as long as possible. You walk past shops as they’re beginning to close their doors and peek inside to hope to find something of interest.

“Chara.” You’re summoned back into the hot seat and you shuffle. You’d never liked lying to Carla.

“What’s wrong?” she presses.

You hoist your white flag as you slowly chomp on your chocolate. “I just… I used to have this friend. And I saw something that reminded me of him.”

Seems to be the simplest explanation you can provide for it all. But to narrow Asriel’s identity makes something in you squirm; he’s not _just_ your friend, he was your first friend, your best friend, your biggest enemy and greatest challenge, your ex-foster brother. An achievement you could never deserve but one you were given anyway.

Carla seems to catch wind of your reservations toward the subject and deters as best she’s able. She takes a sip of her soda to provide an intervention for thought. 

You discard your empty wrapper and pop in the marble just as you’ve been instructed to.

“You don’t have to act like remembering what has happened es a bad thing.”

You give a sour laugh, bubbling in your chest like the air in your soda. “Well, it was all kind of bad. I don’t spend a lot of time differentiating the good and the bad when it comes to what I left behind.”

You receive a deep frown in return, with no explanation.

Great. Now you’ve disappointed this person as well. Your orange pop tastes like acid.

“You are talking like Miles,” Carla finally says. You stop in your position along the sidewalk.

“So?”

“…Dearest, I want you to be happy here. But it shouldn’t be some sort of last resort, okay? You never received the closure you may have wanted.”

“I mean, I _guess,_ ” you say, eyes downcast. “But whatever. I like it here now. I don’t need to go back.”

Carla’s fingers tighten around her glass. She walks along your side for a moment longer, and the sidewalk is slowly bathed in the shadows of the buildings above.

You’d meant what you said. You don’t need to go back. There’s nothing back there, anyhow. And you were nearly killed the last you’d tried to settle down with the Dreemurrs.

…Isn’t that a valid excuse as any to run away from your problems?

“You’re growing, cariño,” Carla says, and her smile becomes soft and loving; it doesn’t meet her heavy gaze. “Please don’t miss any chance you can to grow up like you deserve to.”

Then she brings you into a side-hug that feels cold to the touch, but the meaning behind it keeps you from scampering away. Your mind trails back to the locket they’d stuffed into the plastic baggy and told you that no outside items were allowed behind the asylum's doors.

You walk along a little longer, with both of you silently watching the sun dip into the mountains and concluding another day in Elliston. You’re beginning to wonder if it looks just as beautiful here as it would anywhere else.

-

Carla drops you off after managing to carry on a few more idle conversations between you two, which you happen to find temporarily enjoyable. It distracts you from the endless wrestling of your insides; you might actually throw up if you start thinking too hard about all of this.

You thought you were growing. You thought that this was all a step towards the imaginative recovery that everyone baited overhead; that you were feeling happy because you were solving the puzzle pieces inside of you and branching out in places where you suffocated before.

The last thing on your mind was that this was all in cowardice.

You’re dropped off and told to say hello to David, and you head back inside where, hopefully, there’s no one waiting for you.  
There isn’t. At least, not a human, which is good enough for you. Lady tramples over herself to get herself up off the floor and sprint into your opened arms.

Animals are nice. Animals don’t expect much of you.

You can’t help but give an empty chuckle when the border collie rolls over and exposes a very fluffy belly, and you scratch her with whatever love you have left to spare after a long day.

When she seems content enough, you give Lady one last head scratch and retreat upstairs, calling out a mandatory, “I’m home!” into the abyss.

You head upstairs and flop down onto your bed the second you reach your room. Exhaustion settles in and you decide that maybe you should start getting ready to retire for the night. It’s getting pretty late anyways, and it’s not like you’ll be missing much on television, with what crappy channels you _can_ watch.

As you stretch, you look around your shabby little bedroom. It was meant to be a guest room— as was Miles’s; you suppose David likes company—and it shows in the inferior design and overlooked patches along the walls. There are stains in the ceiling and the furniture that the previous owners left within the room are old and wooden and the floors creak too much at night. But hey, you have your own bathroom, so that’s pretty cool.

Your stack of art projects lie in a massive pile in one corner of the room; strands of yarn are clustered with watercolor palettes, and fabric is sewn into contrasting textiles with undercooked stitching work. It’s more of a thinking corner than anything, but it’s all courtesy of Carla, regardless.

You think back upon what she said. There was no anger or disappointment in what she’d told you—not even in any episode of hostile intent can you imagine her ever snapping at you. You know that she treats you like her own sometimes, out of compulsion. And you suppose you encourage that with your constant communication with her, and asking her about things that you can’t really discuss with David and Miles—emotionally or anatomically. She _is_ the one that encourages you to knit things outside of scarves. She taught you about bra sizes. She hired you to work at her store the moment she could find a job for you.

Automatically, it’s the people you allow to open yourself up to that end up telling you things you don’t want to hear.

It’s another argument that it all might be something you _need_ to hear.

...Nothing a good old shower can’t fix.

You rush in the moment the water is warm enough and try to scrub off all the suppressed memories you’d gained from that stupid fucking necklace. If you’d just kept things to yourself, then maybe you wouldn’t be feeling like shit.

It’s a quick wash, mostly because you’re aware that either the water will run cold super fast because Miles has already showered, _or_ Miles will want some hot water left over for when it’s his turn. And it’s not like you particularly enjoy washing in the dark and having to be intimate with your body, so it’s a win.

You step out and give your hair a quick comb, attempting to practice normality. You change into a tee and pajama bottoms and snuggle under the covers. And then, because Miles is usually the one that makes you tea since it goes along with your nightly pills, you reach for a book on your night stand and turn on the star lights you’d stuck onto your bed frame, awaiting further instruction.

 _This,_ you try to tell yourself, is what you’re _supposed_ to achieve. This is what the Dreemurrs would have wanted for you, wouldn’t they? To have you be happy and pleased with being in bed alone and in a safe home, where you don’t think too much about somebody storming in and yelling at you, or where the knives are located.

Carla acts like there’s something more to be missed from your absence. You can count on one hand—and not even use up all of your fingers! – the amount of people that could be missing you right now.

Toria and Aegros (who are _supposed_ to automatically miss you, since you were the token foster child), Asriel (who really should find something better to do)…

_…Frisk._

Frisk, whom you never forced to love you. Who wanted to practice sign language with you. Or make you laugh. Or listen to your storytelling because they never learned how to read themself.

…They’re fine now. Frisk has a _family. Asriel_ has a family. They don’t need you!

—You’re getting distracted. You’ve skimmed over an entire page without reading it.

You’re about to start over and try again when something faint, yet loud, crashes into your senses.

It sounds like something being slapped at. A table, perhaps. But it sounded intentional. And the murmurs you hear threatening to go full-blast is too risky. 

There’s a fight occurring.

_Is it about me?_

No. Don’t be stupid. David and Miles don’t fight often, but when they do it’s the same result. They yell at each other about supposedly nothing, and then later on you’re reassured that none of it had to do with you.

Not like that ever calmed your nerves. But still.

Curiosity kills the cat. You crawl out of bed and walk back over to the door you’ve closed. And you manage to crack it open. Immediately the voices begin to waft into the room.

“… _sick_ of you always trying to force your paranoia shit on me!” David. He sounds more irritated than outright livid, but it doesn’t soften his tone. It’s sharp and hits like a knife.

“This isn’t paranoia, David. This is _reality!_ And fucking _excuse me_ for thinking that you actually _care_ about what I’m going through—!”

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that _stupid_ thing where you put all of this on me for some reason! So no, excuse _me,_ Miles, for thinking that you deciding to abandon everything you’ve made here and just hopping on a crazy train _again_ is a stupid idea!”

You don’t know what they’re talking about, but the foundation of the argument sounds familiar. It’s enough to have you advance steadily forward.

“Would you stop automatically thinking that this is all just in my own head?!”

“That’s because most of it _is,_ asshole! How many times have we been through this?”

You nearly trip down the first step on the stairway as you creep closer and closer towards downstairs without realizing. You’re drawn into the horrid altercation with a sickened sense of involvement; but you’re floundering on how you can stop this fight, and in defeated you settle yourself on the top of the stairs. You wait for them to mention you in order to be summoned.

Your heart twists and turns as you continue to earwig.

David sighs in aggravation when his brother doesn’t respond; you imagine Miles with crunched fists and a harsh jawline and a glare that could kill. “I don’t understand where this is all coming from,” he finally says, but his anger isn’t invisible in the undertone. “I know we talked about you figuring out what to do with this whole...disclosure thing. But you can’t just…come to me about something so… _idiotic,_ and expect me not to ask questions about it!”

“Because it’s not any of your business. That’s why.”

“It _is_ my business. You coming to me and talking about dropping everything and running off into the sunset is _exactly_ my business. _Especially_ since you won’t tell me why!”

You frown. Your fingers are unsteadied as you thumb at your pajama bottoms and scratch into your palms. Miles can be easily spooked by certain encounters, sure, but usually not to this degree. You’re still not sure what was even proposed.

Hackles obviously raised, David cuts off whatever Miles have had to say with a searing, “And if you say _one more time_ that this is for everyone’s best interest, I swear to God I’m going to kick your teeth in.”

The silence on the other end says enough.

After a barbed cliffhanger, leaving you on the brink of burying your frustration into your skin, Miles mutters, barely audible, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right. I _don’t_ understand. There are tons of things I don’t understand about you.” David’s voice hasn’t let up. “I don’t understand how you haven’t called our parents personally, in _years,_ to tell them that you’re alive. I don’t understand how every time we go out you’re on the verge of a panic attack even if we’ve gone to the exact same location hundreds of times before! And I don’t understand how in the _hell_ you expect me to just let you drive off to god-knows-where and ditch everybody like this!”

Your heart drops into your guts.

Miles is unresponsive.

The next answer is a plea: “What aren’t you telling me, Miles?! What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Still nothing.

“…You know what, fine. If you’re going to play the silent treatment card on me again, whatever.” Footsteps begin to stomp towards the doorway, swinging the door open with a harsh screech. “Do whatever the hell you want to do. Ditch us all. Run away with no explanation. I don’t give a fuck.”

The last hanging sentence is slammed into the door and you feel both you and Miles shaking.

A thickness in the air makes you want to choke. You’re trembling and you can’t stop because they were so loud, so loud…and you don’t know what’ s going on, and….

The silhouette grabs your attention first, and you have to suppress a natural jump stuffed into your backbone. Miles is on the bottom of the steps, and as he advances without noticing your presence you instinctively shrink into the shadows.

He catches you though, and your presence stops him halfway up the steps. Even when he’s submerged in shadows and free to expose his thoughts, Miles’s face reveals nothing; but it’s more of the startling atmosphere you feel building up. You’ve already heard what you needed to and you already feel the tremors under your skin.

He’s not looking at you. “Shouldn’t you be in bed.”

You’d backfire with something snarky if he didn’t sound so exhausted. And if you didn’t already witness some of the cruel words exchanged, you suppose that you’d be rubbed the wrong way at the subtle orders.

It’s easy to stand your ground as of now; your spine is so upright and corded from eavesdropping that you feel stuck in time. You just murmur, “I was waiting for my medication.”

Your heart deflates when Miles has to scour his face with a hand all the way through, pinching at his nose and pulling his hair. You hadn’t meant to be a nuisance; you know you’re here at a bad time.

“Right,” he sighs, then again, “right. I’ll…I’ll go get it.”

“I can get it!” you interject.

“No, it’s fine, kid. Just...give me a second, alright?”

“…Okay.”

You’re paralyzed, waiting for a job to do that will make you the most useful in the situation. And when Miles seems to catch onto your sticky situation, something seems to click in his mind. He approaches you with softer features.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t…that didn’t have anything to do with you. You know that, right?”

You nod. You were there long enough to know that it wasn't you specifically. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

 _You say that every time._ “Okay.”

He gestures that you follow him downstairs, and with puppet-like limbs you drag on close behind.

The whole downstairs feels unnecessarily tainted, now that the fog of conflict is dissipating into nothing since David has already stormed outside. And from the lack of excited skittering across the wooden floor, it seems like Lady went out with him.

But it all seems so awash in this raw sensation you were a mere witness of. And it’s not like you can provide any insight on the situation, given that you’re not exactly sure what caused this argument. You have a few hints at the reasoning— so it’s not just you that’s spotted the increased delusional behavior with Miles, then—but nothing concrete. Maybe that’s the most helpless feeling. If it _was_ about you, you could be in control of it.

You sit on the couch and behave like a porcelain doll, placed all neat and tidy. The clamoring in the kitchen and the hum of a microwave indicates that your tea is heating up and will arrive shortly. Which you would be more than happy to do yourself, but until you receive your metaphorical certificate in fidelity when it comes to your prescriptions, it’s one more thing you can’t do.

Miles walks in a moment later and places your pills on the table, then hands you a mug, and then flops down next to you. He curls into his hands and lets out a lengthened sigh that’s cusped into the palms.

You sniff the tea’s aroma first— chamomile, good for sleep and anxiety—and take a short sip. Your knees hug your chest and the air is tense.

You want to say something, but there’s nothing you can say that will soothe the pain. Besides, confrontation isn’t exactly your forte.

“…Do you want to stay here.”

Your heart thumps. You swallow your tea. “Hm?”

“Elliston,” Miles clarifies; his eyes are fogged and he’s looking at nobody. His voice is unnervingly flat. “I asked you before if you like it. Now I’m asking if you want to stay.”

You’d love to say, ‘Of course!’ But it’s not an easy check to cash in.

“A little context for where these questions are coming from would be helpful,” you end up saying. The hot tea drains down your throat; your breath is warm when you exhale and attempt to vanquish the bad air, still lingering.

It doesn’t work. Miles fidgets in place.

“David didn’t mean what he said,” you try to supply, pitifully. “You know you guys can say mean things when you’re upset.”

A scoff. “You shouldn’t defend somebody like me, kiddo. We’ll...get over it.”

“At least your confidence is promising.”

Miles doesn’t bother to reach for your attempts at humor. He just says with an advert eye, “Don’t forget to take your pills.”

It makes your hair stand, how barren his voice has become. But you reach for the tablets anyway and stuff them down your throat. Even if Miles is too exhausted to remember to double-check that you’d swallowed.

“Done.” Awkwardly, you place your cup on the coffee table.

“Go to sleep then. It’s late.”

“Sure thing, captain.”

Another weak wit that soars overhead and into nothingness. Miles still hasn’t given you proper eye contact since he’d found you snooping on the steps.

“…I’ll go now, if that’s what you want.”

You leave on that note, picking at your pajamas. Trouble in paradise has never sat well with you, especially when you’re about to settle in for the night.

Then, he speaks up. “’Night, buttercup.”

At least he’s trying. You force yourself not to smile.

“Goodnight.”

-

It shouldn’t be a shocker that you don’t sleep well, turning sheets and wrinkling all the blankets you usually pile atop yourself. The room is stuffy and your heart can’t stop relieving the intensity of all that’s just happened.

Even that damn heart necklace isn’t out of your head. Asriel’s smile turns into a malice sort of figure, looming overhead like the final reminisce of the Cheshire Cat. Your fingers absently shape the alphabet that Frisk had informed you of.

This shouldn’t hurt like it does. All of it. And you’re not sure where you should start blaming yourself, because that train of thought would never return to its station. You’d start to pity the parts of you that you _want_ to change, but can’t.

Heaving a sigh, you sprawl onto your back, unchained from the bedsheets you’d shoved off of the mattress, and stare up at the tiny, glowing universe you’d stuck onto your wall. Neon starlight glares back down at you, demanding answers that you can’t give.

Maybe this was all just a cruel, inevitable realization. Eventually you’d remember Asriel and his family; you’d miss the parts of them that you allow yourself to. You miss Frisk. Hell, Leadville itself wasn’t too bad; Colorado could be just as pretty as Montana sometimes.

“I don’t know what to do,” you inform the stars.

They don’t even twinkle.

Miles isn’t perfect, but he’s all you have. And you don’t know what’s going on in his head, but it’s scaring you. Because he’s stir-crazy and _he_ knows you should’ve left a long time ago.

Now, you’re beginning to think he has a point. Carla knew this too; this isn’t growing up, this is a cushioned escape from what you can’t run away from. This is keeping all the loose ends static and untouched.

Maybe it’s time you start tying them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter title.](http://musterni-illustrates.tumblr.com/post/138515242401/the-shitty-horoscopes-anthology-is-now-funding)
> 
> [Epitaph.](http://inkskinned.tumblr.com/post/165203517214/im-worse-than-empty-im-overfull-like-i-stuffed)


	3. you may not want to change, but the world is unforgiving and will do it for you anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alt: 'i'm a reaction, all recoil, the kickback from a gun as it punches your shoulder, turning away from something horrific.'

You’ve been staring at this stupid computer for what feels like an hour. The windows are still open to that stupid email that put you on edge; it taunts you with the luminescent light. And now you’re pacing through your stupid empty room and your stupid brother is still off your radar after walking out during that _stupid_ fight.

…There’s no need to act like you’re some victim here. It’s not like you weren’t _consciously_ confronting David about fleeing the farm with nothing but a cheap car and perhaps a meager sort of supplies. You’re taking shots in the dark with all your lunatic plans, and you know this; you just didn’t expect your brother to be so offended by it. And, in hindsight, it _was_ a stupid idea, but you’re so shaken up about this anonymous message that letting it sweep by without a strategy in mind isn’t a mistake you want to perform.

The only loose end that’s preventing you from bolting out into the unknown and ditching your family again is Chara. Maybe that’s a good thing, or maybe it’s not; but David is, unfortunately, right on this matter. The kid has extended their haven to include yourself in the formula, and maybe you didn’t do enough on your part to avert this dependent nature of theirs. But what’s done is done, and you don’t know if you can ditch them, especially not after the events of the previous years. Separation is no longer an option.

_Damn this stupid messenger. Damn them to fucking hell…_

Everything is spilling out and you _hate_ it. You despise this sort of confrontation because it’s something you’re connected to. You’re overfilled and it was this _one_ instance that tore you open. If it’s all some cruel hoax, you think you’d feel even worse; that you were so overwhelmed by nothing that you risked your mending relationship with your brother for this.

There’s really only one option you have that could give you a potential answer on whether this is a genuine warning or not. It’s definitely stupid for multiple reasons, but there’s nothing you can do. Your course is already set.

After one more round of patrolling the bedroom, wearing your heels thin, you finally settle back into your chair and face the officious message.

It’s stifling to steady your hands as you type out: _who is this._

Simple enough.

Your heart plummets when you send it off.

…Okay, that wasn’t alleviating in the slightest. If anything, you feel more worn and ugly than when you’d first sat down and decided to take all of this into thought.  
But you’ve already sealed your fate, so there’s no use to sit here and grovel about it. You suppose now you could wait downstairs for when David comes off his high horse and returns home.

It takes you a whole five minutes of refreshing the page before you finally gain the courage to head back downstairs and wait for the final act of judgement.

-

The front door creaks open eventually, emitting a slight breeze into the stiff room, and your thoughts are so clustered already that you confuse the unexpected noise as a menacing character. It takes your idiotic brain a moment of resetting to recognize the large and threatening noise as your brother walking back inside, and behind him be his ever-loyal companion, tongue lopped to the side as though this were nothing more than a surprise stroll.

David turns over to where you’re seated on the couch, awaiting trial; almost expectantly he observes your presence. He says nothing, and unlike Chara, you’re unable to pinpoint his expression in the dark. But you can spot his arms reaching up to rub his face.

He waits for you to explain yourself.

You thumb at your dirtied fingernails in a bout of strain. “I shouldn’t have acted stupid.”

It’s not enough and you’re well-aware of that, but you have enough on your plate and you’re not about to make room to scuff out an apology.

Your brother clenches at the hair locks he’s twisted into his palms. “It wasn’t _stupid_ …” he sighs, and then retracts after a second: “Okay, fine, it was stupid. But I don’t know what you want me to say about it.”

He makes his way over to the couch, and Lady follows. They both settle on the opposite end and watch you intently through the dark. “I’ve told you over and over again that you’re both fine here and that nothing is going to happen to you. But I feel like you’re not listening to me.” You flinch when he throws his hands up and slaps them back down into his lap with a heartless huff. “Hell, I _know_ you’re not listening to me! And I’m tired of being ignored.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say.

“…I wish you’d get some help, alright?” he admits, and something in you goes cold. “There. I said it. Your paranoia is off the charts and I can’t be your therapist forever.”

“You’re not my therapist,” you snap curtly, shutting down that theory instantly.

David shakes his head in confirmation. “I’m not saying I am,” he says, and a small part of you is relieved. “But you’ve been acting weird lately as of late. I’m starting to wonder if you really do need to head back. Just for, like, closure or something.

“But I guess you mentioned ‘running away’ and I just thought, ‘Oh, God, here we go again,’” he explains. You suppose that you understand his placement now, regarding the fight. But it’s not like it matters.

“...Maybe we should just sleep this off, yeah?” is the conclusion, and David sounds so tired that you don’t mistake his proposal at first as any sort of passive-aggression. It still doesn’t simmer well when he gets up, snaps his spine, and makes a rutty attempt to depart. Lady follows suit, as you assume she doesn’t want to be alone with you.

“I’m not mad at you,” your brother finally says – which you can’t help but think that this reassurance is delayed and it’s not heartening. “I just...wish you could trust me more.”

His voice fades at the end, leaving you in a quiet that you’re meant to break with an apology, or some reassurance for your brother's behalf. But you don’t. Because you can’t trust David, and that’s not only out of some instinctive spite you carry but due to the fact that you just _can’t_ trust anybody. You have so many plights and so many strings attached to yourself that to entangle someone else in this gigantic catastrophe is an inadvertent death wish.

...You’re tired. Fuck this. You’re tired of running but you don’t know what to do. You have no one to talk to (and the very thought about dumping this out on the kid is almost laughable) and that used to suffice fairly well in your favor, when none of this mattered.

But that fucking email… If there’s a higher being responsible for all of your anguish as of late you’re pretty sure that he’s giving you a gigantic middle finger for being a prick all your life. This is punishment for being an isolated asshole and now you have to start asking for help. You can’t do this alone anymore.

So you stand up, making David start. His expression is hard and you assume that he was about to snap, considering that he couldn’t overhear your internalized soliloquy.

“You wanna know what’s wrong?” you say, perhaps a bit too coldly.

He says nothing, but his eyes narrow and his face does something funny.

Fuck it. _Fuck this._

“I’ll show you what’s wrong.”

-

You lead your brother to where the computer is hooked up, all the while your legs are like gel. You’re terrified of finding an answer to your question in your inbox. You’re terrified of _not_ finding an answer to your question in your inbox; it’ll only make your ‘psychotic’ status further solidify.

But, if there _is_ a reply, then you’re just further snarled in this sender’s web.

David looks at you with narrowed eyes once you gesture at him towards the computer, before surrendering and settling into the chair. He silently reads the message still open on the laptop; naturally, you hadn’t bothered to close out of it. Your fingernails trail across your teeth as he reads on, drowning you in the disquieted ambiance. For a few moments, the only movement in the room is your brother’s flickering eye trailing through the email.

He turns to you once he’s finished, and it allows you to exhale a breath you’d been holding. Your stomach further tenses once you notice his expression is lacking further inquiry.

“Well?”

David just shrugs slightly. “I mean, yeah, it’s a little weird. But let’s look at this logically—”

You can’t help but groan, and the fingers you’ve been gnawing on pinch your nose with renewed exasperation. “Oh, c’mon, don’t do this right now—”

“Miles, look. People pull crazy shit like this all the time. People are assholes. Like, you’ve lived here for so long and I think we’ve done a pretty decent job at keeping you under wraps.” Your brother rolls away from the computer, spinning slightly, like the whole thing is a damn joke. “This guy just probably happened to pull some crazy bullshit out of his ass and it linked together.”

You feel your fact heat up indignantly. “So your reasoning is that some stranger just _happened_ to figure out not only about Elliston, but about the kid too?”

His disinclination to retort only further proves your point.

“…Okay, fine. It’s creepy,” David admits. “But what is running away going to do?”

 _Is he serious?_ “It’s going to help us not get caught by Murkoff, dumbass.”

“And what does that solve?” Your brother swirls back to the desktop, and you twitch because you think he’s about to delete the message; but he just stares at it. “You were right, Miles. You can’t keep running from all of this forever.”

With disdain, you cross your arms. “So what are you suggesting that I do?”

“I…” He takes a long moment to reflect, and with his contemplation you begin to have a bit more confidence in your unresolved irritation. Because there really is no handbook you should be following and you really are attempting to do the best you can with the materials you’ve been given.

Finally, David murmurs, “I don’t know.”

The confession makes a remote sensation of conceit bounce in your gut. “Well then.”

“Save it, smartass,” he snaps. “It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t think of our next battle tactic.”

“Which I did already.”

“Agreed, but counterpoint: your idea was stupid.”

You scowl. “Well what the fuck would _you_ do differently? Since you’re such a damn _expert_ on this all of a sudden.”

“Miles—” Your brother’s patronizing tone doesn’t go unnoticed and you’re close to biting back with something potentially harmful when you spot a box pop up on the screen. You fall silent when you recognize that this indicates that you’ve gotten mail.

David notices your altered demeanor and whips around to spot the message, and he appears surprised to the point where he says nothing of it. He just hovers the mouse over the refresh button for a hot second, then clicks it.

The anonymous sender responded.

Something overpowers you; a ferocity directed at something, but you don’t even know what it is. Probably fear, given how stiff your heartbeats have become. The insects burrow into your blood and you know that this isn’t the time nor the place, but your thoughts have become clouded with panic.

You’re looking down at your hands now, watching your fingertips shake as an act of cowardice. Your brother snaps you out of it, calling, “Miles?”

He sounds concerned, and given how blurred the whole room has become you don’t blame him.

You’re dizzy; you take a breath, exhale it slowly, deliberately.

Within seven seconds, you manage to ask, “What’s it say?” There’s this underlying rasp in your voice and it glosses over, making you gulp. Either David is too enticed by the email or he doesn’t mention your slip in tongue.

“Uh…” He hedges a moment before deciding: “You might...wanna see this.”

The unknown is a worse opponent, you decide. You step forward manually. Your eyes barely register the message in your tiny bit of internal strain.

It’s just…

“Numbers?”

David’s mouth becomes a hard line, and his eyes crease. “It looks like it could be coordinates. There! See?” He points to the screen where, sure enough, you’re able to decipher that you may not have excelled in geography in school, but there’s definitely an ‘S’ and an ‘E’ at the end of the numbers. Doesn’t take a genius to put two-and-two together.

You feel your temple begin to feel taut against your brain, the bafflement knitting your brows together. “I don’t… I don’t understand, what…”

“Well,” your brother sighs, “Lucky for us, this part of the process is pretty easy.” He opens a new tab, and the flicker of a new screen causes you to blink rapidly, adjusting yourself. “Just plug these puppies in, and…”

He types the coordinates into the bar, then clicks enter.

You’re greeted with a pin on a digital map, and you feel sick.

“...Doesn’t appear to be anything sinister,” David comments, zooming in on the location You see that it’s a place in South Dakota. "It’s a really rural area, though, so I don’t…”

He trails off when he decides you aren’t listening.

“Hey,” he tries, “it could still just...be a prank, right? I mean, it’s a random small town in the middle of nowhere. What the hell could be so important there?”

You don’t know. You don’t _know_ , and it’s freaking you out. South Dakota might not be relatively close to your location, but it’s not halfway across the fucking _world._

It’s tempting you on purpose.

_It needs to be exposed._

“I have to go there.”

If there was a drink in David’s hand, you’re for certain that your statement would have caused him to spit out the remains of his drink in a comical fashion. He sputters for a second. “Wh-whoa! What?! Hold up, now— You’re not seriously—?”

“You want me to confront those sons of bitches?” you snap, and the anger escapes you as quickly as loosening a tense muscle. “Then I’m doing it. I’m gonna go see what this fucker wants.”

“Wh— Okay, when I said ‘facing your troubles head-on’, I was _not_ talking about following some random creepy coordinates that were sent to you over a fucking email! Even _I_ know that’s just _screaming_ ‘trap’!”

“David.” Your tone is hard. It zips his mouth shut, if only for a moment. “I’m not running from this shit anymore. I need to know what they want. I _need_ to know what’s going on.”

“You’re just…” Without words, your brother rubs one side of his face, rigidly exasperated. His eyes are slumped with concern. “Miles, you’re not...from what you’ve told me — if this _is_ some big elaborate scheme — those fuckers aren’t gonna take it easy on you. What makes you so sure that you’re not gonna get caught?”

That’s the thing. You’ve never been less concerned. You’re a docile weapon, waiting to be recharged. You’re not meant for failure. If Murkoff wants to try and tame you, they can’t. They _know_ that they can’t; you automatically have the upper hand here, for the first time in fucking years.

You can’t say this. So you just say, lamely: “I know what I’m doing.”

There’s a snort. “Yeah, never heard that one before.”

The look your brother receives cuts his antics short. There’s a nasty gleam about you now, and the room feels a tad darker than when you’d last checked.

You repeat: “Let me do this.”

There’s a pause, and in an uncharacteristically-optimistic fashion, you think that it’s weighing in your favor.

“I don’t know what you’re up against,” your brother murmurs, and in his tone you remark upon something submissive, soft. Perhaps terrified.

Your shoulders raise. “Then I can show you.”

If there’s one thing you’re certain upon, it’s that you have so much shit on Murkoff you could write a full-length novel. Educating your kin on the horrendous deeds performed by those pricks is a dream.

Another pause. And, then, to your aching relief:

“Okay.”

-

The morning comes, but you don't allow yourself to get outside and enjoy the wonderment of dawn. Everything stings too much, which tends to happen if you don’t swallow up your sleeping meds at the proper time; but at least you were being productive, you decide, so it was almost definitely worth it.

You’d spent a good couple of hours with David last night, sprawling out papers and notepads and telephone books and maps across the dining table, trying to figure out what to do next. The end result was a sloppy version of all the fantasy escape routes you’d memorized in your brain throughout the years; it comes with being paranoid and finally having a chance to let your anxiety-driven schemes have some spotlight.

You sit up from the chair you’d fallen asleep on with a thankless groan, popping joints and letting the grogginess of not having taken your pills prior to sleeping fully kick in. A blanket has been proper onto your back sometime during your slumber, and by the lack of David sitting next to you and analyzing the maps and coordinates, you have a suspect in mind as to the culprit. Not to say you don’t appreciate it; the fresh mug of coffee that’s been put out next to you makes the scene all the more considerate.

It’s as you’re reaching out to grab the cup that you realize you have company.

Chara is looming over the table, their posture stiff as they observe your waking figure. You nearly jump out of your skin when you lock eyes, and what’s unnerving is that you can’t detect any sort of sharp emotion highlighted on their features. They’re just staring at you, almost expectantly.

You don’t offer a good morning because you know that they’ll believe you’re trying to practice normalcy when there is none to be found in this scene. You’re sprawled over the makings of a madman, with all your notes and phone numbers and calls of future action. You couldn’t sugarcoat what you were doing last night if you tried. No turning back now, it seems.

Then Chara flits downward to eye your handiwork, and idly picks up a piece of paper that you didn’t catch the contents for. Their gaze is still piercingly even as they skim through it, and you await the upcoming questions with baited breath.

They eventually cease their reading, and the glare you’d been awaiting comes once the paper is properly set back down.

“Miles.” The kid’s voice is cold. “What the hell is going on.”

They’re unbending, and you know this. You know they’d catch any reassuring lie you’d manage to spout out within seconds.

And besides, as much as you’d hate to have them involved in yet another catastrophe linked to Murkoff, this is their stability on the line as well. Like it or not, Chara has to be involved in what you’re plotting, from this point out.

You take a moment to drawl on time before you have to spill the beans; the coffee warms your throat but the taste is bitter. You smack your lips and take another moment to stretch out a knot that twisted up your lower back overnight. Chara is upsettingly patient.

“We have to leave,” you admit, somber. You look back down at the table as you continue: ‘Someone figured us out, kid. We gotta head back out again.”

Chara is quiet, and you don’t bother to look up; you’re not sure you can handle what you'll find.

“We’re not leaving permanently,” you say, as though it will improve things, “It’s just that…now we have to. We need to get out of here.”

Still nothing; your skin crawls.

“I…got sent an email.” You fumble for a moment to find the copy of the message, which David had suggested to print out for reference. Your eyes only lock with Chara’s hands during the exchange. “They sent me coordinates, too. So…the plan is to follow that, and—”

“And what?” Chara interrupts, surprising you. “We’ll live there for a few years too before they figure us out again? And then we’ll keep moving around, like an endless game of tag…”

“It’s not like that.”

It’s an inevitable act to finally acknowledge the aching glare Chara broadcasts when they shove the note sloppily back into your hands. Their eyes glimmer with something harsh and dangerous. “It’s exactly like that.”

“Kid—” They stop you.

“No, just…” They push you away, shoving the stray papers that are closest to them and having some float towards the ground, in a moment of anticlimax. Chara sweeps around, shoulders drooping, and heads towards the door. “Just…don’t.”

They head outside and shut the door behind them, with no force in the action.

You allow them to leave without bothering to go after them. You know that this is harder to process for Chara than for yourself; although you agree that this is all _majorly_ fucked concerning Murkoff’s hold on your life, at least this allows you to face some facts. You can’t be David’s sidekick forever. You have to do this by yourself.

This isn’t like before. You were monitored back then, and manipulated and brainwashed with zero chance of recovery on your own. Now you recognize the gritty, raw edges that make what happened to you…well, _real._ And you understand that this is just another double-edged chapter in your life that you have to accept is there.

You love your brother— and you’re glad that you’ve become comfortable with acknowledging this about your relationship with a family member—but you’re not ten anymore. You’re twenty-nine, and within a stone’s throw you’ll be thirty. These last two years have been great, but two years can become five, ten, or twenty if you’re not careful.

As much as you hate to do so, you take Chara’s complaints with a grain of salt. This hurts them, of course it does; the horror stories they’ve shared with you about their old parents and about Mount Massive further proves that they don’t want to abandon this home easily. But it must be done.

You sip your coffee and steady your pained hands (damn it, you slept with your braces on; no wonder your wrists feel like stone). Then you begin to pick up the stray papers Chara had accidentally thrown along the floor.

When David gets back, you’ll see what progress you’ve made since last night.

-

You and your brother share a quick breakfast together, and you watch patiently as David looks over some articles you vaguely remember printing out that had something or other to do with Murkoff.

“Hm.” Your brother is nowhere near being ideal for the path of a journalist, but you can tell his gears are turning. He’s reading one paper that inscribes the recent shady crimes of companies you’d found linked to Murkoff — which, if you think about the case at hand, don’t have much to do with anything, but you’d like your brother to know exactly what you’re up against. He’s told you multiple times that he doesn’t really care about The Establishment anymore, and that it’s already so fucked up that there’s no time to be angry about it — an original family disappointment.

But you know that Murkoff will fight tooth and nail for your captivity – and Chara’s, too. To research their sly battle tactics is key to knowing the enemy.

David finally sits the paper down with a large exhale through the nose, then reaches for his mug of coffee, similar to yours only with more cream in it. “Well, you were right about one thing — those scoundrels are sneaky as shit.” He takes a long swig of his drink before asking for the hundredth time: “You sure you wanna follow these coordinates?”

You nod firmly, even if your heartbeat twitches with hesitation. “It’s the only lead I have, David. And getting out of here is better than staying and letting the bastards come to us.”

“Well, yeah, but again: what if this is all a big trap?” David presses. “These guys don’t sound like they’re to the point. They’ll probably nab you when you’re not looking.”

“Well, we _are_ looking,” you protest. You slam down the notes you’d taken, and the backup protocols you planned on performing if everything does go to shit. You know Murkoff better than your brother; you’ve experienced their stealthy torment firsthand, so it’s not like you’re going to be shocked if this all turns out to be an elaborate hoax to get you in their hold again.

A black force swirls around underneath your flesh angrily, ready to pounce if summoned. If bad transitions to worse, you have a final resort that David doesn’t know about; _hasn’t_ known about, thank god, for years now. And you intend to keep it that way.

Of course, you say none of this aloud. So your words hang like wires before your brother decides to let his guard down. He retracts with a tilted, “Alright. If you’re so damn confident about it all of a sudden, I guess I’ll trust you on this one.”

The momentary burst of pride you feel growing in your chest disappears when David adds on: “So, now that you have some plan in mind, let’s discuss the elephant in the room.”

You suppress a childish gulp at the ominousity. “Which is?”

He gives a small yet receptive scoff. “The kid, smartass. Let’s talk about the kid.”

Oh.

You figured this was coming. It’s like David said before, there’s not a lot of debate on what’s going to happen, one way or another. Chara is going to follow through with wherever you’re going; what fluctuates is how they’ll feel about it.

Judging by their most recent impression of what you’ve told them, you doubt the news will blow over well.

But an idea pops into your mind. “Let me go and talk to them about it.”

David perks a brow. He knows you usually never want Chara involved with anything similar to this.

“I know it’s not gonna change anything,” you explain. “But they deserve to let how they feel be acknowledged. You know how they are with suppressing things. Maybe it’ll help out, I dunno.”

 _And,_ you internally add, Chara is not little anymore. And despite your personal conflict regarding such, you feel like they have a right to voice their thoughts freely, even if it changes nothing. You know Chara, too; they need a doorway to be opened right in front of them before they can properly feel adjusted and included in a situation. They wouldn’t do this on their own.

A chuckle emerges from your brother, as if the conversation couldn’t get any more surprising. “Heh. Alright then, go for it.”

You give him an odd look. “You’re serious?”

He gives another short laugh. “Yeah. I’m serious. Go and see how they feel about this disaster, then we can start getting you ready to leave.”

It’s all happening way too fast for you to keep up with. Here you are, equipped with years of safety and— what the hell, call it what you want; it _is_ just sitting around. It’s not right, but it’s all you’ve known. And now because of two dumb emails, you’re heading out into a potentially dangerous zone for some sort of closure.

You wish you could say this would be the first time something like this occurred.

“Hey.”

David looks up, having long since left you to stare into the abyss, thinking. He’s returned to re-re-rechecking his papers.

“Thanks.”

The rusty word of appreciation is something you haven’t said to a family member in a long time. You’re still not sure how you feel about it.

But David’s grin is colossal, and he reaches out to clasp your shoulder; an action you’ve grown accustomed to without having a heart attack every time it’s performed.

“No worries, little brother,” he tells you warmly. His tone changes slightly, solemnly, when he adds, “And…sorry again about flipping out earlier. I just assumed that…”

He doesn’t finish the thought, and he doesn’t need to. The smile returns again, and you feel a tug on your lips as well.

“No hard feelings, hermano,” he promises, and something lifts from your shoulders. “I’m glad you came to me about all this.”

Not long ago, you wouldn’t have bothered. Because people don’t really care about your issues, you’ve learned, and in no way are they supposed to help you with battles you’re assigned to fight on your own.

You still hold this mindset; just a bit…looser than before.

David stands up and proclaims that he’ll go and get some stuff settled for you, when you inevitably leave, and you suppose you could label this a milestone in personal improvement if you had to.

-

After you manage to free your wrists from those god-awful braces and practice flexibility, you head outside to see if you can track down Chara. The wispy clouds race along the skyline, and a breeze whips your face, chilling you instantly, but you soldier onward.

You really hope that they didn’t venture out into the woods; you don’t know if you can walk that far without becoming impatient, knowing firsthand how much they love to hide in peculiar places out in the wood. Especially when they’re upset, and you’re certain that they are.

But the kid gets cold easily, and the chill in the air would most likely limit their sovereignty. Unless they’re way too upset to truly care about the temperature.

Luckily, common sense and foreknowledge triumphs when you spot them nestled near the farmhouse. The tall grass slaps their huddled figure, and Lady sticks to their side, seemingly to shelter them from the cold with unspecified success.

You walk into the field with steady pacing, as not to alarm them. But even if Chara sees you coming — and you’re pretty sure that they do; their peripheral vision is often so precise it’s frightening—they don’t budge.

Eventually you reach the two, and Lady gives you a blank, disinterested look before returning to her assigned duty of protecting the kid from the billowing wind. You warm yourself for a second with stiff hands running along your arms before you take your place beside Chara and lean against the barn.

Their exterior countenances show nothing, but they’re not rigid as stone, either. They don’t bother to look up at you.

You look back out on the house— fuck it, your home. However momentary it all was, it was still there when nothing else bothered. It’s odd that you even inwardly remark on the companions that sought for your attention, even when you gave them none. David’s friends are annoying, sure, but they're harmless. That’s more than you can say for anything else you left in Leadville. Hell, you don’t even _remember_ life in D.C.

“I know you don’t want to leave,” you finally say, fixated on the drifting grass around you. It’s a lame conversation starter, and bound to shut anybody down.

It’s surprising when you hear Chara shuffle and rest their chin atop their knees and look out onto nothing; a conversion from when they were completely balled up with their head concealed through their arms and hair and jacket. They give a long sigh.

“I just don’t understand,” they murmur lowly. “What was the point of escaping if all we do is run anyways?”

Their words give a secondhand sting because you understand. You’re just as tired; contrary to popular belief, you _do_ want someplace to settle. The ‘when’s and ‘how’s are still debatable, but home is an unknown entity you don’t belong to, and you _want_ to. You want all of Murkoff to go and fuck themselves and you want to figure all of this shit out without their looming specter.

“We’re not running away again,” you say to Chara, and it’s interesting how your voice is firm, and you mean what you say. “This isn’t like before. I promise it isn’t.”

“Then, what is it?” Chara presses. They turn to you, and their brown hair spills across their features. “What _is_ all of this, then?”

“I…” You stare down at your crooked hands. The blood and bone that twelve-year old Chara once had to bandage up for you, when that son of a bitch tore your fingers right off, have been wiped clean. The tiny lines where you once tore open your veins in a fit of something ungodly are barely noticeable.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But things are different now. I swear it is. We’ll find… _something_ worth all of this bullshit.”

Chara’s frown tightens, and in foresight you can’t say you wholeheartedly believe what you’re saying either. If anyone ever has the guts to tell you that everything has a reason, you’d punch them square in the jaw. You used to believe your mother’s religious teachings as well until Mount Massive; a lot of orthodox beliefs you blindly carried became trifling once you were proclaimed the Walrider’s Apostle. But now…you still don’t know. But if you can convince Chara of something remotely optimistic so they can sleep at night, you suppose that’s reason enough to lie.

That’s what your parents did after all, right?

Nothing sits well amidst you both, even after your soppy reassurance. The wind picks up speed a little, curling you into the warmth of your jacket.

“If there’s nothing out there, we’ll come back,” you decide. “But…I have to know. I can’t sit here for the rest of my life and not know.”

“Not know what?” Chara asks.

“…Not know what was worth losing,” you admit. “Not know what’s happened after. I can’t stand not knowing.”

“I get that.” With faint surprise, you feel Chara’s head plop onto the side of your shoulder. They scoot in closer, and the heat of another human being to accommodate the cold helps relax a few muscles.

“I want to see them again,” Chara whispers; and you know who they’re talking about but it still hurts a little, in different areas and for different reasons. They exhale with seeming despondency. “I hate that I always think about them. I just…I never got a chance to say goodbye.”

It’s shocking that the thought of Jackson appears without being verbally summoned, and even more shocking that it stings to think about him. Like Chara said, you never had the chance to close anything. And beforehand, it never seemed to matter. But nowadays…

You reach out and, despite the ever-present stings of your appendages, you mussy up their hair to assist the wind, continuously dousing both of your faces with strands of hair that get in your nostrils and mouths.

“Chin up, buttercup,” you say, in a perky, uplifting sort of tone that you both know is absurdly fake. But you see Chara’s mouth perking up anyway. “We’ll get this whole thing sorted out.”

They sneer good-naturedly, pushing away your hand so they can run a hand through their untidy hair. “You’re so weird.”

Amusement overshadows the dark thoughts running rampant through your mind, if only for a moment. You seemingly retract your touch, but manage to poke the side of their ribcage with your index, making them squeal. Even Lady turns her head to watch the kid tumble backwards into the grass, shaking and laughing at one simple touch.

“Agh! You jackass!” Chara scrambles away in a fit of giggles. “You’re derailing from this _extremely_ heavy and touchy subject!”

You shrug with a faux frown on your face. “Sorry, can’t say that I am.”

“Yes you are!” To emphasize, Chara sneaks forward on all fours and attempts to do the same for you, but you’re able to dodge their swift attack. You don’t even try to forge a serious expression at this point.

“No, don’t—!” Too late. Despite their protests, you pummel them into your chest and they give a lively screech again, and as they’re captive you further muddy their long hair, and their ponytail holder is lost to the wheat. You don’t goof around like this often, but you can make the excuse that you both incredibly need this, so you laugh until your suppressed stress and current mirth mix into one entity.

Chara erupts into a giggling fit when they can’t escape your grip, however strained your arms feel. As you restrain them from running off, the kid pulls out their final card and pleads for mercy.

They tug fiercely on your grip, loosening your posture, and they continue to cackle. “Dad, stop!”

You freeze.

…Maybe you didn’t hear them right. The wind is singing through the grass and you could’ve easily mistaken.

But you both seem equally rattled as it sinks in. Chara pulls away with no protest on your behalf, and their eyes are wide with horror with they turn back and see whatever is plastered on your face – but, judging by how they clamp their hands over their mouth like they’ve spouted some ungodly curse, you assume that you heard correctly.

“Shit!” Their voice is high-pitched and bumbling. “I didn’t—I’m so sorry! That was—I—”

“No, it’s okay,” you try, but to your own ears you don’t sound convincing. If anything, you just feel more…confused. Shocked, even. “You didn’t mean to…”

Chara flips away, abruptly ending the talk before it even started.

“I’ll…go get packed. Or whatever.”

Your frown grows heavier when you realize how flat and small their voice has become, all because of one screw-up.

If you could even call it that…

...One crises is enough. You dismiss them and they head back to the house wordlessly, hugging their body against the blustering weather. Lady takes a moment to side-eye you – like the fucking _canine_ knows something that you don’t—before running off with her favorite human.

You lean on the farm’s structure for a little while longer, watching the sky become overrun with thick, grey clouds. A storm should be in order at any given point. Still, you don’t budge.

It’s like a fucking to-do list in your brain. Every time you feel like you’ve gotten something monitored and stabilized, another curveball gets thrown straight at you. And you’re always one step behind.

And, okay, it’s true. You never really had time to think about what your relations to Chara truly are (alright, fine, you _have_ had time, but you choose not to reflect upon it). You’re the adult, that much is certain. So you’re more than some friend of theirs – which is fine, because you think your miniature social cluster is already so demeaning that you shouldn’t add a child into the mix. But that doesn’t really leave you with many options.

…Again, you’re going to interfere on this one. Not that it’s not worth discussing, but you’re literally about to do something that could get you in serious trouble or killed. Anything else is just troublesome, and that’s including this topic.

A few droplets of rain splash onto your jacket, but you brush them off. You give one last ponder as to what your home has consisted of—physically and mentally. You tilt your head upward eventually, letting some drops tickle your face. It rained back at Mount Massive, too…

It really has been a long time.

-

“Okay, last time. One ring equals—”

“It means I reached the motel.”

“Two rings.”

“Means that I’m not there yet but everything is fine.”

“And three rings?”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at your brother’s inadvertent cosseting. “Three rings means everything’s fucked. I think I got it."

He gives you a bemused look as he stuffs another load of luggage into the trunk of the car. A used car, and a crappy car—but a car, nonetheless. It was the best you could afford on such a short notice; David certainly has some odd strings he can pull to get you into some weird deal with one of his business buddies. Not that you’re complaining so long as the engine is running.

There’s not much to pack, since you all had instantaneously concluded that this wasn’t a permanent getaway and that you could come back if – and hopefully _when_ – this all passes. You’re pleased that you only need to bring the essentials along, and keep the more personal items in someplace safe and unbothered. It’s comforting.

Eventually Carla and Chara come around the bend, assisting in two more bags on the kid’s behalf. They shove them in with David’s gentle guidance on where to place the items, then fall back when it seems to be a job well done.

You feel something oddly cold numb your senses when the car’s trunk is slammed down and locking all of its contents inside. Because this really is some sort of renewed chapter in your life. Wherever the coordinates tell you to go, you’re going. It’s way too late to ditch the whole thing now.

Your insides gurgle with a carnivorous urge you’ve been habituated with for a while now. But the sensation is so raw it nearly sweeps you off your feet in a blinding moment of apprehension.

“Is that the last of it?” you hear your brother say.

“Yes,” Carla answers. “Everything should be in there.”

“Alright, great. Uh, thanks again for your help.”

Carla nods without a word, and there’s a clumsy air between the two you can never seem to overlook if you tried. But, fortunately, you’re spared from serving as a third-wheel character when Carla looks over at Chara, who is shrinking to her side.

She smooths out the kid’s hair in a loving matter, her gaze soft and yet a little bit sad. She speaks to Chara in private tongues, and you can’t hear what she's saying all that well from where you’re standing. But she appears to be encouraging Chara to poke out of their shell a little, and it seems to work with the kid standing up just a smidgen bit straighter.

And then, after pressing a soothing kiss to Chara’s forehead, she approaches you. You try not to reflexively dig your hands into your pockets in a fit of atrocious unease. Carla has never been a close friend with you; mostly because you think that in some primitive aspects, you remind her of her ex-fiancé, and the next being that…well, you don’t know. You’re just not good at this kind of thing, especially with an ex-sister-in-law. But she adores Chara and wants the absolute best for them, so at least you have something in common.

You’re a bit offput when she reaches out and grabs you into a small but firm hug. Neither of you are adjusted to the action, so it doesn’t last very long. But she retracts after a quick squeeze of your abdomen and parts with a rather tight frown – something you think you could mistake for a smile of sorts, from a distance.

Carla’s eyes are shining but they’re hard. “Take care of them, please,” she says. “They are such a wonderful child. They do not deserve this…grief.”

You nod, and somehow your eyes find the ground after spending a mere second in her presence. “I will,” you promise.

She doesn’t budge. “Swear to me.”

“I swear.”

A moment’s hesitation, before she murmurs, “Good.”

And that’s all you really get out of her, save for a small “Be safe” and then she walks back over to give yet another goodbye to Chara. It twists the knife, to know that one of the only few people Chara trusts is being thrust out of their life again. But you don’t feel like it’s directly _your_ fault this time.

David walks to stand by your side, sharing a silent companionship to perhaps ease the burdens before you have to get in the car and drive away. It all feels too surreal to have you wrap your head around it all at once: watching your brother’s ex-lover dote on some kid you’d picked up along your travels, and have said child receiving affectionate doggy kisses from your brother’s loyal border collie. And, the more you think about it all—the less in control of everything you feel.

“You’re gonna be alright.” Using that sibling ESP he’s been granted with, David grips your shoulder to ground you back from a potential dissociation travel. “We’ve been over this. You get there, you see what they want, and we take it from there. You either bolt or stay.”

“Or die,” you add grimly. It adds a scowl to both of your lips.

“Well, aren’t you just a fucking ray of sunshine.” You both eyeball the dented, rusty excuse for a vehicle that you’re about to drive off in. No commentary fills the ambience rather than a couple of vocal bugs in the fields around you; a regularity you feel like you’re not going to receive in a long time after this.

“Seriously, don’t worry about any of this,” David tells you after a pause. “We have plans. We have backup plans. We have phones. You’re gonna be fine. For all we know, this still could all be an elaborate hoax.”

You grimace. “Well, if it _is_ a hoax, I’ll still give the bastard a run for his money.”

“There we go.” Not understanding the true depth of your idle threat, David elbows you in good spirits. “Either way you’ve got something to look forward to.”

“I guess so.”

Chara and Carla eventually dispatch, and with a slumped body posture and eyes that are perhaps a little too glazed, the kid walks towards you. They just give you a tight nod when they reach you and David, and that’s enough to get the ball rolling.

“Alright!” Your brother clasps his hands together perhaps a bit too loudly. “Time to get down to business.”

Reluctantly, you agree.

You both head to the car, and Chara buckles themself up in the passenger seat with their head down. You settle in front. The moment your hands touch the wheel to adjust, you feel fucked.

“Deep breaths, hermano,” David advises, and despite how faintly condescending he sounds, you give a long exhale to assuage your nerves. “Think of it like a drug deal. Go in, get the stuff, go out.”

You have to snort at his soppy attempt at relieving the situation. “Thanks. Your media-constructed knowledge of how trading crack works is making me feel better already.”

He just smiles. “Be safe out there.”

You plug the keys into the ignition. “I’ll try.”

“And, uh,” he stops before you can roll up the window, “just…know that you have a place here. Alright? You’ve earned it.”

Touched, you can’t help but fight back a warm smile. “Thanks.”

He claps your shoulder one last time, and he steps away from the vehicle. Carla joins his side, but unlike his composure, hers is tight with fraught. Her eyes are dark when she gives you a final stare, almost like a silent warning. Possibly relating to keeping Chara safe, or else.

You buckle up and start out on the journey. None of you wave once you’re out of the driveway. And, somehow, that’s what makes the whole thing seem real.

-

A while after you’ve already head out, the adrenaline rushing through your pulse seems to have died down, once you remember how tedious this step of the plan is.  
You recite what you know, out of boredom but also out of a rushing panic that you maybe somehow skip over a step when the moment calls for it.

First off: there’s a motel out near the coordinates of the neighborhood you’d been directed to. You have money and you check in. Then you head out either that night or the next day – whatever time the overwhelming anxiety kicks in and decides to put you into action – to the exact location of where you’re supposed to be. And whatever happens…you’re certain that the Being-Who-Can-Go-Fuck-Itself will make some sort of appearance.

Not that you dwindle on that section of the plan; it makes you get a little _too_ excited.

Chara has their head buried in a map, but you’re pretty sure they’re not even reading it; their eyes are clouded and they’ve been looking at the state line of Montana-North Dakota for a good several minutes.

The silence gets a bit overbearing, but the brittle intensity of before seems to have dissipated. It’s been about a half-hour into the trip, so all mutual alarm has dulled down the more that nothing happens.

“You know you didn’t have to come with,” you say flatly.

“Yeah.”

That’s all that you can get out of them for the time; you remain patient for the few minutes that tick past before Chara finally folds the map up and puts it away.

“Look,” they begin. “I _wanted_ to come. And not just because I have no idea what I’d do if you left because I’m pathetic like that.” Before you naturally protest, they give you a Look which oddly silences you. “But I think I would have wanted to do this even if you didn’t want to. Because… I guess, like I said before, I didn’t get a proper goodbye.”

Their knee finds their cheek and they hug their leg, gaze wistful. “There wasn’t much to leave, I’ll admit that. But… you’re so old and—”

You furrow your brows in offense. “Wow.”

“No, I mean, you’re older than me. By a lot. And just recently have you made up with your brother.” Chara ducks their head away and shifts so they can look out the car window. “And I don’t want that to be me.”

You soften a little. You’ve been well aware that your life decisions usually fall under the touted ‘what not to do’ category, and you’ve long since stopped taking offense over it. Especially since your infamous streak of resentments has never been neatly tied up.

But you make a heartless jab at it anyway, for the sake of a potentially lighter atmosphere. “Maybe I do that on purpose to lead an example for the rest of us. Show us all what we shouldn’t be doing.”

Chara sighs. “Ah, yes,” they say, “Our annual ‘unhealthy martyr complex’ discussions.” But they’re smiling, even if they’re still gazing outside with a wistful expression. It’s progress.

Your grip on the wheel tightens absently on the wheel when you pass the first sign that welcomes you into a new town. Where you’re now farther away from the designated shelter you’ve spent years establishing. And you left it behind because of a fucking _anonymous email._

_Jesus Christ, déjà vu is a bitch._

“You have a weird look on your face,” Chara comments, and you turn to them again. Their face is meticulously blank, perhaps reflecting your own. And you remember that this isn’t your Jeep anymore, and you’re not going to an inescapable hellzone by yourself, with no weapon to protect you.

You’re fine. _You’re fine._

“Just thinking,” you tell them honestly, and it seems to weigh in your favor, because Chara seems content. Their eyes gleam with an old mischief.

“Thinking about irony again?” they ask coyly, and their enquiry prods at your lips.

“Always.”

“Well,” they sigh, taking a moment to release their hair from the ponytail it was tied into, “I suppose any new journey like this calls for some sort of witty remark. I’m fresh out, though.”

“Regular bastions of sarcasm, us two,” you shrug.

Chara snorts. They give you a punch on the shoulder that you don’t flinch at. “Heh, well. Thanks for being fucked-up with me.” And despite the teasing words, the tone is soft and warm. Homey. It makes something curdle in your stomach like butter, even if you can’t exactly pinpoint why.

You don’t respond with anything but an affirming nod of the head, since you’re supposed to be adult, quoting David, and you’d assume that cheering on a child’s self-deprecating sense of humor could be frowned upon. But they are right, all things considered. You’re messy, and they’re messy. And maybe having that mess shared is something you shouldn’t take comfort in, but here you are.

The atmosphere grows neutral again as you pass another sign to indicate where you’re headed. It provides no comfort, but your heart feels a little lighter as Chara switches the radio on to a local, static-less music station.

-

It’s dusk when you arrive at the motel you’d premeditated upon residing for the night. Both you and Chara are equally claustrophobic of the little leg room the trip provided, and relish in stretching out your muscles the moment you park.

“This is the part where I ask you exactly where and why and what the _fuck_ we’re doing?” Chara perks up the minute they pop a stubborn bone in their back.

Oh, yeah. Kinda forgot to do that.

With a small pang of shame, you tell them briefly: “We’re just going in and scoping out a threat. If there’s no threat, we go back home, and if there _is_ a threat—”

“We kick their ass?” they finish, splitting a grin.

“ _I_ kick their ass,” you correct firmly. “ _You_ stay in the hotel and out of danger.”

They make a noise that promotes both disgust and exasperation. “Typical, always wanting to be the cool badass hero. Just because I don’t have any cool demon powers doesn’t mean I’m not useful!”

You unpack some of the luggage from the trunk as Chara continues to complain; they only sound mildly sincere in their protests, so you don't feel too offended. There are more pressing matters.

Even though they’re adopting some air of annoyance, the kid assists in unpacking their bags as you head for the entrance of the motel. You finally admit, “It’s not that I think you can’t help. I know you can; I just don’t think it’d be wise to get you involved in something that could easily be snuffed out.”

You’re on your way to elaborating when Chara gives you a small half-smile. They only flicker their eyes towards you before replying, “I was only teasing. I know you’re just being protective.”

‘Protective’ isn’t exactly in your vocabulary, but before you can debate on this extremely important argument, Chara swings their suitcase to the side and stops momentarily to scope through their pockets. You pause and wait for them, curious upon the holdup.

And then something shiny in their grasp catches the moonlight, matching the sparkle in Chara’s eye as they show off a knife they were able to pickpocket away from David’s desk. Again. You glare at them disapprovingly. “What have we talked about with having knives?” you scold, but for once the reprimand flies overhead.

“Oh, please. I probably won’t even get to use it,” Chara rebuttals. They dance the handle along their fingers in a professional fashion that makes the dagger swing to and fro in their hold, and it’s beginning to make your stomach clench. “But! It’s a good Plan B, don’t you think? Shows how useful and logical I am in times of crisis.”

That…is actually a little bit true. Providing Chara with some defense you might not be able to offer if you’re separated during this confrontation – however the hell it’ll go—should have been brought to your attention. You’d been so focused on getting in and getting out that the in-betweens are but a distant thought. Which is, more often than not, your first problem in sticky situations.

So you give out a lengthy sigh and say, “ _Fine._ But _only_ for protection, got it?”

Chara’s toothy smile is illuminated by the crappy lighting of the motel’s parking lot. “About time!” they exclaim happily, and you watch as they expertly tuck the knife into a back pocket, giving it an affectionate pat. “Right where it belongs.”

You continue towards the motel, and the lady behind the desk is more than happy to give you a small room with two beds – and seeing as how most of the keys on the rack are present, you have a feeling it might have something to do with your business equaling the first profit in days.

“Here you are!” she chirps, flashing a toothy grin. “If you need any help accommodating your stay, feel free to let us know.”

You thank her, and she says something else about how you have every right to feel ‘right at home here’ or whatever, and you ignore it because the comment strikes you a bit too suitable for the time.

Chara is the most excited when you twist the key in the appropriate lock and you push the door open, revealing a modest room with two beds. Nothing exciting; you’re not foreign to deficient hotels back when you used to travel and collect stories. The sight provides its own nostalgic comfort you try not to drown in.

Immediately Chara abandons their luggage at the foot of the farthest bed and bounces onto the stiff mattress. “Cool! Crappy motel beds!”

You’d be more amused if you weren’t in the process of investigating the place, just to be sure there aren’t any hidden cameras or microphones or dead bodies -- the usual. The unknown is ten times scarier when you’ve been summoned to this location by a stranger online. Murkoff be damned, you don’t trust this area for shit.

Eventually you give the all-clear and look over your shoulder to spot Chara getting comfy into the pillows and attempting to get a signal on the television set parallel to their bed. You feel the need to remind them: “Hey, on that TV, be careful about the—”

“—Static, yeah, got it.” The kid tosses back your advisory without looking up at you, and with haste you decide to look occupied with the notes you’ve carried around in your bag. Chara continues to surf through the channel, meticulous due to your forewarning.

You remember with a start to ring your brother and advise him that you’ve arrived at the designated motel safely, and almost immediately after the action is carried out you receive a text message enclosed with a box. You can’t receive emoticons on your phone, so you’re left to assume that he offhandedly sent back some sort of thumbs up or smiley face to proclaim his approval. It’s a bit touching in its own way, but you won’t admit it.

You set down your phone on a bedside table carelessly, about to join Chara in their quest to diminish boredom, and that’s when there’s a knock on the door.

Being survivors, the entire room emits a mutual hysteria as you and Chara jump in sync at the noise. The knocking was harsh yet brief, and it was enough to have a sense of unease unfurl in the room like mist.

The next sound you register is the distant pattern of footsteps, running away from the scene. And somehow that’s what gets your own feet to move and advance towards the door. You swing it open, ogling the scene like you’re expecting someone to immediately pounce on you. But all you spot that breaks the serenity of night is the swift movement of a figure disappearing around the bend. Into the forest beyond.

You call out a, “Hey!” like you expect the silhouette to stop and consider you — you’re not sure what would be worse.

It’s quiet again, but if you strain your ears you hear the swishing and snapping of leaves underfoot, indicating that whoever it was has made a messy getaway through the woods.

Chara pokes their head out from where they’ve settle themself behind you, and you peek down to see that they’re holding their dagger close to their chest. “You think that was them?” they finally ask, and you don’t need clarification.

Your tongue is dry when you respond, “Maybe.”

And then, as if on cue, you both take notice of a slip of paper placed on the doormat outside of your room. It doesn’t take two heads to realize that it wasn’t there previously.

You pick it up with mechanical hands, like you expect it to explode the moment you touch it. Then you flip it over to read:

_“Near power lines, thirty-five feet southwest. Come alone.”_

The writing is in all caps. There’s no signature.

You expect your blood to run cold upon reviewing the anonymous letter. But you feel a predatory sensation, rather, heating your circuits. This is what you came for; what you abandoned your haven to sought out.

And if they want to get you, then they’re more than welcome to fucking try.

Chara has been reading over your shoulder the whole time, so you feel no need to explain your haste as you shove the letter into their hands and walk over to scavenge for something in your bags. They ask, “Are you seriously going to take their bait?”

Pawing through said bag, you explain, “It’s what we came for, kid. The sooner we give them what we want, the sooner we can leave.”

“Sooner we—” they stop, and you hear alarm creep into their tone. “You’re not...surrendering, are you?”

The thought makes you recoil. Surrendering is no option, and it’s kindly that both of you realize this.

“No,” you say, victorious in soughting out your phone (just in case) and grabbing the copy of the coordinates you’re expected to follow. “Just gonna ask them to talk.”

Chara is about to make a smart comment, you’re sure, but when you spin around something in your gaze restrains them. A humming noise emits from somewhere and the television’s signal begins to shake.

“What are you—”

“I’ll be back,” you promise, then walk straight past them. “Don’t open the door for anybody.”

You shut the door tightly behind you and follow the notes.

 _‘Follow the blood, down the drain,’_ you think bitterly.

You both share a moment of bemusement before an oily substance coats your arms, and you move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Eric Andre Show jingle) we'll be right back
> 
> [Title](http://musterni-illustrates.tumblr.com/post/104430123916/the-shitty-horoscopes-anthology-is-now-funding)
> 
> [Epitaph](http://embragii.tumblr.com/post/157791852693/the-kickback)


	4. there is a way to define oneself in this skin without violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alt: _'we all wind up drawn to what we're afraid of, drawn to find a way to make ourselves safe from a thing by crawling inside of it'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General content warning for misgendering

To set the record straight: You and the Walrider are not friends.

Hell, 'partners' is too cheeky of a term too. In truth, you don't know _what_ you are. It was easy to qualify your relationship with the Walrider from the beginning as parasitical, as his presence encouraged such a title. But you've grown into the swarm's deceptions and antics; there are times the Walrider obviously wants supreme authority, but it's not a godlike-substance you carry around anymore. It's just a thing.

And that thing causes you way more trouble than it's worth. But...you literally _can't_ live without it. Not just physically, either; this roommate in your brain has become way too cozy for you to just suck him out. It's burrowed in your skull, in your thoughts...some days, you have no clue who's the one making the decisions, you or the Walrider.

Maybe it's because he's grown complacent. Murkoff designed him to be a killing machine, sure, but Hosts have authority as well. You know this from observation and experience: Billy was a weak Host, concerning dominance. You're not.

It doesn't mean that you don't _ever_ team up Because right now, you both are in a united mind; you feel like two opposing electrons have finally linked and snapped together. The compromise right now is that an unknown source — whether it be an ally or a threat, and you're both betting on the latter — is luring you out into some unknown location. That would make anybody's hair stand up, especially if you're stupid enough to follow through with the instructions.

You're not surprised to see your arms slowly morph into a blacker skin when you look down, and your fingers clench at the air like you're practicing to claw someone's guts out. The darer consciousness toys at the ends of your vision and you allow it to.

This doesn't intimidate you anymore; you know the formula to get the Walrider and his gang of neuro-infested fleas back under your thumb. But you haven't been outside of Montana in a while, and the world is too big and scary for you to be wandering off and following yet another another trail into the unknown without reinforcements.

When you followed the blood back with Father Martin, you had nothing — and that cost you some fingers. Like hell are you going to lose anything else this round.

You tromp through the night, gaining more of an awkward step as the thick manifestation of the nanites infect your composition. Which is fine, because you're not going to venture into another trap like a helpless scrap of prey.

_Okay, so the note said somewhere around here..._

**No threats detected...**

_You sure?_ With a hint of mistrust towards your personal narrator, you inspect the wooded area. You weren't told specifically where to go so maybe you'd passed some obvious drug-trading joint or something where most sketchy encounters occur.

You stop in the middle of a clearing and look up to notice some power lines set in the middle of the forest. As was foretold within the note, this is where the confrontation should occur; but so far you spot nothing. At least you could always follow the lines back to civilization, should your internal compass screw up.

By now your head is swarming with nano-flies; they encircle your body and graze across the area, to make sure your status remains intact. You're patient as you stand alone in the middle of nowhere, fearing nothing; and, truthfully, the sensation is loosening an age-old muscle. You feel your shoulders slacken and your lungs decompress in the crisp air.

"I don't think this is it," you say aloud.

You hardly speak to the Walrider verbally anymore, if ever, so this is surely a transition. You detect the impact of this in how the looming figure, slowly taking a phantom shape in front of you, almost hesitates in movement. You calculate this notion as an act of surprise.

Before you can really wallow in how stupid you truly are, there's a crackle of branches that echoes throughout the glade. You jump, but your heartbeat is immediately reduced to a normal pace by the influence of nanos in your blood.

You're calm-mannered when you place your hands a bit too nonchalantly in your pockets and call out, "Show yourself."

The Walrider turns its faceless head to inspect the newcomer, and for a moment there's no follow-up, so you wonder if the noise possibly came from an anxious critter — you are notoriously bad with animals nowadays, so it'd make sense.

**Wait.**

You look at the Walrider as he hovers closer to you, like a primitive motion of defense. His talons glimmer with electricity, stretching out like a ravenous predator about to strike.

In a sweeping air of confidence, you hold out the note, still gripped in your tarred hands. "I know you're there," you proclaim, voice evened from equalizied authority over the threat. "You wanted me here for a reason. Tell me why."

You assume the poise you find yourself maintaining has something linked to the Walrider sizing up his next meal — and you, with your heart beating out of your skull, dissociating to a different plane of existence as you speak. It doesn't feel like it's yourself speaking, but somehow, it is, because _you're_ controlling this.

Then there's a raspy voice:

"I don't think it was necessary of you to bring company."

Every inch of you jumps, the Walrider included. Specifically because, holy shit, someone is actually standing in front of you and you can't see them; and secondly because holy _fucking_ shit — you probably just walked into a trap like an idiot!

The owner of the voice steps out into the moonlight, where you can clearly depict a heavily-cloaked figure, their face obscured by both the shadows and the folds of cloth wrapping their features. You can barely catch the glint of their eyes in the dark.

A moment of oddity comes when the Walrider, and he and the figure seem to regard one another carefully; like acknolwedging an old acquaintance. You're about to question your partner on the foresight of the stranger, but it's not you who speaks first on the matter:

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" There's an accent you recognize that's coating beneath the grating tongue, like there are cobwebs in their throat. But the slimy undertone isn't overlooked, either; it raises your hackles and your teeth begin to tighten, your heart pounding for two.

You don't respond, which cocks the stranger's interest. You watch their head tilt. "I doubt this is any way to greet an old friend."

It takes guts to not sputter out "Friend?" and admit bewilderment, but considering _you're_ the one that's supposed to be holding the cards, you just loom over the conversation in a stodgy silence. And for some reason, this further eggs on your opponent.

"Shit, I didn't realize you were tampered with that much," they murmur, half to themself. And still, the swarm breathes around you, inhaling, exhaling. The Walrider reveals nothing of its inner mechanisms, and that's when you slowly begin to freak out. Just a little.

"Who are you," you ask.

The figure just takes your demand into consideration. Their voice is a low murmur when they finally respond, "Figures. They did your head in good back there, didn't they?"

In spite of, you take a cautious step backwards. "The hell do you—?"

"If you're gonna ask me how I know that, my point's been proven," they say, and your heart twists with quacking dread. Underneath your skin, there's a dark, oily pulse; your partner is buzzing now, polluting the site with his shattered fragments that surround the clearing in blackness. It's a threat, you assume at first; but if you inspect closer you find...that the nanites are _inquring_ to the person, as if reaching forward with tentative fingers. Skepitcal, rather than sinister.

Alright, weird...

Then the person reaches to greet the nanites, and it bends to their reach like a receding wave. Almost amused, they ask, "You're really going out of your way to blackmail me with this thing? I suspected better."

Your jaw clenches. "How 'bout you stop beating around the bush and tell me why the fuck you called me out here."

It grows quiet, save for the buzzard-like sounds of your brainmate. Then a raspy, "You really don't remember a thing, do you?"

"Are you gonna answer every question I have with another question?"

"Probably not." Then the shoulders of the figure droop forward, relaxing into a semi-friendlier posture — you're unconvinced regardless, but the looser stance is a start. "The name's Simon Peacock. I'm here to help."

They — or, he, you guess — says that like it's supposed to withdraw the mist around him, but you're resistant.

"Congrats," you say icily. "But I'm really not looking for any help, I think I like what I've going on right now. Nice presentation, though."

"You think this is just about you?" Simon retorts. "I wouldn't have called you all the way out here just for an intervention —you're way too far gone for that." Even though you know it's true, it still pangs heavy in your chest. Then: "It's about the girl."

While the Walrider barely stirs, you're frozen with an abstract horror; you only manage, "I beg your pardon."

This enables him to move forward slowly, like he's trudging through heavy underbrush. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. I know you do; there's a reason the Walrider has never presented much interest in her, isn't there? It's like she's some sort of glitch in your radar. She's untouchable."

His speech makes your spine tighten like chords under your skin; the world around you bristles, presenting a much more vibrant fortification than you can find yourself mustering. "If you so much as touch them—"

There's a raspy, almost cruel series of blotchy chuckles that follow suit. Simon's shoulders tremble in a contorted fashion alongside the laughter, looking a bit painful. It dies out as a breathless wheeze, eventually.

"I couldn't hurt her even if I tried, don't worry," he says. But the nanos grip him tighter; he doesn't give them a second glance.

You growl, "I don't believe you."

"You should. I was the one that kept your locations secret when you were off scouring the mountains like some phantom Sasquatch. I covered your ass when everyone was hunting down your bodies after the Pharmatech fiasco. When Murkoff tried to relocate you after the fact, I was part of the team that made sure you were out of their immediate clutches. That's why you're here."

"You expect me to thank you?"

"I expect you to trust me."

Simon reaches up, here, and you panic for a brief second before he pins back his hood.

The first word that crosses your mind is 'decaying'. Like a reanimated corpse, grey and sagging along the jawlines and eyesockets, with a cruel upturned nose bending into cheeks that appear to be chisled out of bone. He sports a series of cuts across his face and neck — a symptom of torture, most likely. He looks like a transparent overlay of a skeleton; if you pulled at the flesh long enough you think it would peel right off like old wallpaper.

You don't mean to keep staring for as long as you do. Simon ends up giving a throaty cough, reactivating the conversation with a murmured, "It's not pretty, I know."

"I— what—"

"I guess you could call me a prototype," he interrupts, exposing rotten teeth as he talks. "I was created so that you could exist."

_**Wait.** _

"Or rather, so Billy could exist," Simon lists sideways at the Walrider, almost with a twisted sense of fondness. "I really am surprised to find that you exist at all."

"So...there's more of—?"

"There's always been more Walriders," he replies. "You think Murkoff would stop after their magnum opus was created? That they wouldn't attempt to re-master their greatest achievement when someone decides to play god and snatch it away from them?"

There's an oddious depth to his question, bleeding with contempt and perhaps, in small pieces, hatred. Like the words have been festering in his grotesque lungs for years and just now has he been given the chance to spew it back out.

Still you command, _Wait._

"I didn't want to hurt anyone," you protest. "You think I would've gone into that hellpit at all if I knew what was going to happen?"

"I think so," Simon answers, almost fucking _smug._ "Because you're like me. We search for truths with the expense of our own bodies and minds. We expose the immoralities of the world to watch those evils burn. You would've presumed your heroism to have been worth it in the end, at the expense of yourself and everyone around you. Correct?"

"I—"

"What I mean to say is I understand, probably more than anyone else in this shithole world," Simon sighs. "I'm the beta version of what you turned out to be. If the Walrider can't hurt the kid, what makes you believe I can do the same?" His sturdy gaze bores into your own, unblinking. "I don't know why she's an exception, but she is. You can call it luck — hell, call it love — but you're physically unable to touch that kid."

It's...hard — _painfully_ hard — for the reins to be tugged back a notch; but when they are, the Walrider dismantles his placement on around Simon's body, rippling away from him like water. A sharp inhale of breath is taken from your electric lungs, feeling the pressure of the situation once again be placed on your shoulders.

You want to kill him. Rip him to shreds and demand answers. His affiliation with Murkoff seems antagonistic, much like your own, but if you trusted every person that wasn't soft with Murkoff you'd be a dead man — a _deader_ dead man, at the least.

It's just that you both are so **hungry**...

But this is a different time. You aren't what you were two year ago — neither of you are.

"What do you want."

Simon looks at you a moment, giving you some sort of size-up, before reaching underneath his cloak and pulling out another strip of paper. "I have a trail of breadcrumbs you should be able to follow. I can't say much else vocally in case, you know..."

He trails off because you do know, from one basket case to the other. _Just in case someone is listening..._

You go to take the slip from the gloved hand, but not before exchanging a mental side-glance with the Walrider, almost as a sign of affirmation. He gives you the casual 'no threats detected' bullshit, like that helps assuage your curiosity, thanks Wally.

Another set of coordinates, it seems. You have to bite your cheek a little in dismay. "So basically you're sending me on the worst fucking scavenger hunt ever."

He shuffles, appearing a bit embarrassed. "Believe me when I say I'm not trying to, but I'm not exactly the direct pipeline of this hunt."

"Then who is?"

"Don't know any real names. I just do what they tell me and they give me a need to survive. It's a symbiotic sort of relationship that I'm sure you understand."

It's an odd jab, but you give your brainmate an amused sort of glance regardless.

There's a brief intermission as you process the useless pack of numbers leading you to the next stop on your wild goose chase for...something, you guess. Closure? Some sort of secret happy ending you've unlocked?

It still doesn't sit right. "I'm not exactly on board why I should be helping you in the first place."

"I've told you, you need me," Simon answers, almost exasperated. "I can get both you and the kid off the charts so Murkoff doesn't have any more science experiments to imprison. I meant it when I said that they're getting close — how convenient that you wiped your brother's name and address from your emergency contacts."

You give a gimace, "Thanks, I guess."

"My point is that you're being compromised," he infers, then shifts his gaze back and forth to the silhouetted trees around you. "And I'm here to cover your ass with what little resources I can provide. If something happens, I'll tell you. The Walrider and that girl are the key to Murkoff's castle."

"You keep mentioning them but you still haven't told me why the kid is so special," you snap. The Walrider barges in, asks if violence would be a suitable intimidation factor; you just decide to turn up the volume on the buzzing.

Simon stalls, then replies: "I can't stay long. Some gears are in motion, is all I can say."

"What _gears???_ " You ensnare him in your web of singing constellations, but he doesn't budge. He moves through the nanites like Jesus on water, and you have to watch in a stupor as he unveils the dark curtains with a simple wave of his hands.

"Just follow my directions, is all I ask," Simon conclude, tone covertly sage. "I'll create as many diversions as I can, in the meantime, to keep them off your trail. And, uh...Bahandari sends her regards."

And then he retreats, sprinting out on foot so quickly for a zombified human that you have to call out a shocked, " _Hey!_ ", like it'll stop him. But the blackness of the forestry swallows him whole, and you just listen with strained ears as the bracken underfoot grows fainter.

The Walrider imposes. **Give chase.**

 _...No,_ you decide with a lengthy sigh, stuffing the note in your pocket. _Just...gimme a minute to wrap my head around all this..._

**Devour(?)**

_Nah, it's alright._

Even if you really wanted to — which you're neither confirming nor denying — the way Simon slipped through the Walrider's toying mannerisms makes you assume that he's somehow invincible to your primary threats. Besides, you're too tired to conjure up any real sense of intimidation.

The pile of expository bullshit you've just been given doesn't bode well either, so you do what you do best: put your hands in your pockets and spin around, heading back to the hotel.

The Walrider follows.

-

It might be because you're out of practice, but the way the Walrider lulls himself back into your body with only a few tugs of discomfort sticks out to you. It's so heavily contrasted to normality that it almost makes you ask why, since it's not like 'empathetic' or 'sleepy' is in his vocabulary. You don't complain, though; he sinks back under your skin like a reverse exorcism. To keep yourself sane on the walk back, you watch as your veins become black and vibrant beneath your braces, then return to their common purple hue.

Eventually after a few double-takes over your shoulder — just in case — you reach for your room's key and unlock the door.

The minute you open the door, you barely get to call out an assuring 'It's me' before a knife plunges into the wall a good inch away from your shoulder, so forcefully it sticks to the drywall with a loud crunch.

Immediately your heart stampedes and goes into a full-blown state of with all systems on lockdown — the droplets of oil embedded in your skin make a minor reappearance.

Then you recognize the thrower as they perk up from where they'd crouched on the far side of the bed, looking surprised and maybe a tad mortified.

Chara's eyes widen when they spot the location of the knife — how close it came to causing severe damage to your neck area — and sputter, "I-I'm so sorry! You didn't knock and I— I assumed the worst—"

You really wish you weren't glowing with pride right now but you are.

You're tired, so the easy grin that dips into your cheeks is refreshing on the muscles. "Nice aim," you say.

At your sudden praise, Chara's nervous demeanor is vanquished with brightened eyes and a puffed-out chest. "You think so?" they ask, a bit timid.

You nod, closing the door behind you. "I'm pretty impressed, actually. Did David teach you that?"

They nod in return, slightly sheepish. "He said he liked knife-throwing as a kid, or something like that."

"He did, back in middle school. Glad his weird hobby was turned into a force for good."

Now that they're fully relaxed at your approval, Chara flops back down onto the bed. You see now that you haven't changed into their pajamas — nor have they attempted to unpack any suitcases, which lies untouched at the foot of their bed. They'd planned to book it, if you didn't return; as you would've instructed them to do. God, they're smart.

They look at you with newfound curiosity. "Did you find anything?" you ask.

It's a can of worms, definitely, especially since you _really_ wanna crash — or maybe eat something — but you decide to be honest about it. Chara is on this journey as well, so you might as well keep them in the loop. You take out the note and hand it to them. "Seems like Murkoff's exes have unfinished business to take care of. One of their grunts gave me that, so I guess we'll head to where those coordinates lead next."

Chara furrows a brow as they inspect the numbers. "I don't...Miles, I don't know about this. I mean, it could still be a trap, couldn't it?"

"...Yeah, it could be." However sincere Simon appeared to be — even with his lenient dislike towards you, which somehow made his tale more believable since _everyone_ has a bone to pick with you — you don't want to invalidate Chara's fears. The last thing either of you want is to be between a rock and a hard place, especially by those who have nothing but ill intentions.

Regardless you sit on the edge of their bedside and set a hand on their head, with their hair fluffed out by the pillow. You feel their skin relax under your own pressure, like your touch is something tender.

"Get some sleep," you advise them. "Whatever we end up doing tomorrow, we'll figure it out one step at a time."

They snort a little. "How uncharacteristic, you with your chaotic energy and devil-may-care attitude."

"I can be logical _some_ times."

"Chaotic Gay Energy."

The kid giggles at their own joke, even if you feel as though it was at your expense. But, nowadays, you've found yourself more clueless than not at their sense of humor; you really are getting old.

"I'm gonna plug in these numbers with David and see what he can find," you decide, dispatching yourself after a moment's silence. "I'll get your pills so you can go to bed."

Chara agrees with a small murmur before they sit up and reach for their suitcase — probably to grab pajamas. On that note you stand up and exit the main room into the nearby bathroom.

Since your phone has no Internet on it — crappiest model on the market, but you have to sacrifice a lot of things as a fugitive of the law — you just copy the coordinates over text and send them off to your brother. Since he has the advantage of better electronics and wifi on his end, the reply comes in minutes.

It's another address, as suspected. _Doesn't seem too far away,_ David informs you. _I put it in a couple of times just to make sure I didn't screw up the numbers, so you should be good._ Then a few boxes show up besides the message, so you're left to interpret whatever emojis he decided to convey his thoughts with.

You type out your thanks just as Chara politely knocks on the door, and you let them in. Their hair is still appropriately disheveled for a sleepy teen, with printed pajama bottoms of some cartoon character and a wrinkled black tee that really ties the appearance together. In their hands are a toothbrush with toothpaste, so you let them do their business and squeeze past them.

But then you feel your brain hitched on something, nagging at you with little remorse. There's a foreign suspicion that rushes to the fore; like what Simon had mentioned concerning Chara has just begun to sink in.

You turn to them as they switch the faucet on. "Hey, kid?"

They look up. "Hm?"

"Did they...the doctors, were you— did they ever mention you being any sort of special patient? Concerning their business with Project Walrider and the Morphogenic Engine, were you—?"

As though a sour tune has been plucked, the aura drastically devolves; you watch Chara physically wilt at the memories. You know you ask for much when you prod them on memories regarding the doctors — hell, you of all people know that what happened at Mount Massive should've _stayed_ at Mount Massive — and that some flashbacks are just too much for them to reminisce on especially if theyre given no forewarning.

But if Simon is right, and Murkoff's main priority is retrieving Chara, then you _have_ to know more than the scraps you've been given.

Eventually, they admit, "I wasn't informed of much." Their tone dips into an automatic formality: a strategy of detachment, you recognize. "But, I had been given hints that there was more intent as to why they were so interested in my case. I wouldn't say the word ' _special_ ', just because that implies...that I was treated better than the other patients."

Then they sigh, and you spot the nerves in their fingers twitch horribly. "One doctor told me I was made for 'something else'. Although, I'm not sure if it was a tactic for comfort or if there was something to her words. I don't know."

You lean against the doorframe with crossed arms and soak in their words. You hate to be interviewing them, you really do, but you have to know: "What about the Walrider?"

Chara's brows knit closer together. "What— what about him?" Their voice is too sharp, too small and manufactured.

You explain, "You've never seemed to be affected by the Walrider, not from what I've seen. And he's never shown a lot of interest in you — _I_ can tell you that much for nothing. Did the doctors ever hint as to why?"

"I...I'm not sure," Chara murmurs. "There...there was one incident that I can recall where that was ever brought to my attention."

You perk up.

"Back in Pharmatech," they go on, "when you went on that killing spree, I was attempting to escape the Walrider's psychotic spree. I was blindly heading toward the exit, and..."

They stop for a minute, reflecting on the ordeal with a drastic shiver. "He was there, right in front of me. All his weird inhumanly muscles and electric teeth and bones...but he didn't even _do_ anything. Even when I...screamed at him to, he didn't budge at _all._ It's almost like he didn't realize I was there."

You feel something cold drip down your stomach: a flashback is unstitched in the back of your mind, in blurry monochrome; a memory that doesn't specifically belong to your body. There was a kid covered in gore that wasn't theirs; tears are streaming down their face, telling you to _say something,_ and to _do it already._

You shudder at the thought of it all, your hands squeezing the bridge of your nose as an attempt to re-fasten your thoughts.

"Miles?" The kid sounds concerned, but you manage to shake your head.

"It's fine," you assure them. "I don't remember...a lot, about Pharmatech. Just...shit, never thought of that. I was so focused on the soldiers that I just...completely thought you were there."

Chara's frown deepens. "I always just assumed it was you that told the Walrider not to kill me."

"Well, no." Guilty, you backtrack: "I mean, not explicitly. Not up until that point, I don't think. It's been a while since I thought about the headspace I was in back then."

"Me too."

"I...I would've told him had I known, I just—"

"I know."

"I just thought that it was weird that you weren't what the Walrider went after first," you blurt out, "He goes after traumatized people after all, and — hell kid, you've gone through so much shit in your life that you deserve a fucking purple heart. I don't know why it chose me over you and I've _never_ known why! I didn't deserve to be saved of all those bullet wounds, kid, _you_ did."

Chara's mouth is lined in a hard edge, quivering slightly when they ask: "Would you have rather it have been me than you?"

" _No!_ " you say, so abruptly that it even rattles yourself at the insensity of your tone. "But think about it: you're immune to the Engine and the doctors know that. They _wanted_ to preserve you, after _every_ thing. That couldn't all just be a big coincidence, could it?"

They're quiet, lending gravity to your unanswered questions; you watch their bare feet shuffle on the tile.

Then Chara mutters, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Now you've done it. Now you've locked up the gates, with the tiniest foothold you had — and rightfully you're prohibited from unlocking them again. You aren't given as many barriers or regulations with Chara when compared to their other acquaintances, but you're still _given_ them, and occasionally you have to accept when you've crossed a line. This is one of those times.

Feeling heavy under both Chara's clogged-up trauma and Simon's encounter, you let sleeping dogs lie. "Okay," you sigh, "I'll leave you alone, then."

You exit the bathroom, leaving behind a human porcelain statue that you don't hear budge from your stance until you're at a safe distance; then you hear them close the door once you crash onto your bed. You're still hungry — metaphorically _and_ physically. The Walrider's temporary moment of fresh air was enough to get his gears grinding; you feel lost, unanchored hunger gravitate to the forestry outside your room, into the woods beyond, into oblivion in search of quenching your bloodthirst.

And _still_ there's not a single sense of recognition towards the helpless kid in the bathroom brushing their teeth.

_Call it luck — hell, call it love._

You call it bullshit.

With an address in mind for tomorrow's trip, you decide to make a quick run to the vending machine just outside, with Chara's pills placed neatly on their side of the nightstand, just in case you're out for longer than intended.

-

(When you return after an hour of taking a precautious night shift, Chara is cocooned into their bedsheets and the pills have vanished from their position. It's exhaustion that has you deciding to trust them with the medication; you give them a small kiss on the peak of their temple before heading to bed and staring at the ceiling until sunrise.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i](https://sleepwalking.nu/post/170913090104/yes-there-is-a-way-to) || [ii](http://elanormcinerney.tumblr.com/post/114491378631/holly-black-the-coldest-girl-in-coldtown-by)


	5. here is the joy, here is the grief, here is the slaughter i have shaped into stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alt: _'and while the future is fast coming for you, it always flinches first, and settles as the gentle present.'_

People say you have to be a good person to understand justice.

You've always just assumed that it has to do with common sense; adversaries know when they've managed to cross some line, so it doesn't take a _good_ person to know the basics of a moral compass.

You're on middle grounds, always have been. On a scale of 'good' to 'bad', you think you dip more into the antagonistic line of thought. You don't ever _assume_ you identify as a saint, so you don't perceive yourself as such; your cold detachment from people is the first symptom.

But you _do_ know right from wrong; there's still some boundary that you haven't yet exceeded. You don't actively sought out hurting those around you: it just happens. But you'll never understand the active mindset of those who _do_ reach out to hurt people, who use their authorities to practice harm on others. Borderline sociopathy in business practices (and societal ones, too) have always been grating to those like you — people born in the wrong neighborhoods and countries, or born in the wrong skin color.

You don't need to have a heart of gold to know that Murkoff's experiments were inhumane.

Maybe that was your problem: you should've been like those who are also antisocial bastards and stayed _put_. You should've moved Waylon's email to spam or just have forwarded it to another journalist who desired a challenge.

You could do the same here: let someone else deal with Simon's army of underground delinquents, because _that's_ always ended well when dealing with Big Business Corps. The government has its favorites and it's not always the people; you're bound to get dragged down again and you don't know if you can handle it anymore.

But, you think of the kids that curls into your side on bad days, whose night vision saved your ass countless times and who fought tooth and nail alongside you to escape a system that saw you both as only outliers to their equation. You wouldn't have found them huddled underneath that desk if you didn't allow yourself to be selfish with your objectives.

You're not a good person and you never will be; but you have an _idea_ of what a good person is, so sometimes that's what you need to refrain from decapitating heads on the daily. You know that good people shouldn't suffer, and you'll be damned in someone like Chara got hurt because you turn a blind eye to their struggle.

Maybe that's how you know you're going to follow Simon in whatever he requires of you next.

-

You pretend to have slept, for Chara's sake. It just sucks that they see right through your guise as you both eat breakfast — which is junk food from a vending machine: your notorious dish — and they give you an extremely displeased look as they munch on chips. It was probably the eyebags that gave you away, judging by how grossly purple they look when you catch a glimpse in the mirror.

(Spots of grey are starting to bud along your scalp, too, making you scowl. If only the Walrider offered some anti-aging ability for his hosts; but, remembering Billy's decrepit condition, you guess you should be counting your blessings.)

You instruct Chara to pack up once they've finished eating, and obediently they do so. There's no bounce in their step or even an off-tuned hum as they file away their pajamas and brush their hair. You attempt to channel surf as a method of banishing the quiet.

"So."

Turning to Chara with a start, you find them simply staring at you with a blank expression. The artificial light the lamps in the room provide sharpen the lines in the face and makes the glint in their eye that more daunting.

"Where to."

There are double-edged swords, you've found, when unraveling Chara's throwaway phrases. This time feels no different; the intensity held by their gaze indicates that last night's conversation hasn't blown over just yet.

But you aim for simplicity, handing them Simon's note again, as though to remind them. "David said it's not too far away from here," you say, "Maybe that's why Simon wanted to meet all the way out here."

Chara's eyebrow creases. "Simon?"

Shit.

"I— ah," you backpedal hastily, "He— I met him in the woods. He was the one who gave me the directions."

They chew on this a moment; then ask, "Was he the one who said our cover was blown in Elliston?"

You nod stiffly. "Yeah, he was."

"Hm." They file the note away into their own pocket. "And we trust Simon?"

"I think so."

"...Okay." The response is lengthy and unconvincing, but there's not a lot of time to psychoanalyze Chara's true thoughts on the subject — you feel like if you ever manage to unlock their brain's medium you'd suffocate.

You're the one that breaks the quiet this time. "We should head out now."

Chara nods in compliance, then falls behind you as the rest of your supplies are packed away and you both hurry out the door in record time.

When you turn in your keys, you don't tell the woman at the front desk about the scar that Chara's knife pierced into the wall; it’s a low-class motel on the side of the road, so it probably isn’t a high concern anyways.

-

On the road again, Chara finally unclasps their worries when they ask, "Was it the Walrider who saved me?"

You turn to them as you drive, offput. "Huh?"

"When we...escaped," they begin — you hear very large quotations on 'escape', since selective memory is a trait you both carry when recounting Mount Massive — "and you were able to somehow carry me off to safety, even when...even when you were in a really bad condition," (you watch them wince, here) "was it because the Walrider wanted to preserve me, in some sort of perverted sentimentality, or was it because of you?"

You feel your grip on the wheel tighten a smidge as you drive. It's not a pleasant memory lane to recount, so you try not to visit it often. You feel like you're poking at a half-asleep bear, waiting for its jaws to lash out and swallow you.

He doesn't.

You say, "I think that might've still been me. I'm not trying to get any brownie points here, but the Walrider is...he's really touchy, or emotionally-charged, I guess. Just from, what I've seen—"

"Like Pharmatech?" Chara asks, their head tilted with interest. You nod, feeling a little guilty — you definitely overdid it in the heat of the moment, but the past is the past.

They don't talk for a while, but it's not a stifling ambience to fall back onto. From the corner of your eye, you spot their eyes scrunching up a little in contemplation: a quirk you've discovered about them — which is, honestly, very cute.

They sigh gustily and lean back into their chair. "I guess I thought that you and the Walrider were some kinda destiny thing," they murmur. "Like, you were _meant_ to go into that asylum because of the Walrider calling to you, or something. I don't know. To this day I'll never understand why you went."

There's a brief flashback of smelly sewers underground, where you'd both dumped out a portion of your backstories. It feels like a lifetime ago.

"I explained to you why: journalism, dumbass hero move, wanted to prove something, all that shit."

"Well, I _get_ that," Chara says. "But I meant...I'm never one to diagnose dumb luck outside of what it is, but...it's all just so bizarre, I think. You were a perfect Host and you just happened to waltz right into Billy's chamber. Was it foolishness? Was it fate? Or was it...because you..."

They trail off, never exactly returning; but you're growing heavily uncomfortable with the topic, so it's relieving to see them drop the subject with something of a sad smile.

"Well, I guess you're the only one who really knows the answer," they say, but don't sound convinced.

You almost want to pry for more, just to get a glimpse of what exactly is at work inside their head right now — but Chara cuts their monologue short as they perch their elbow on the window and lean forward to watch as you drive through a canopy of trees, eclipsing the sun from view.

It's a hard bruise to poke at, all they've placed into your lap — but you decide you shouldn't probe at it too much. Instead, you ask Chara to read out the directions that David assisted you with (no Internet on your phone means no reliable GPS) and they break away from daydreaming to perform their assigned task. They pull up the directions David sent you. "Simon says, make a left at Whitebrook Lane at the next intersection."

A sliver of fondness at the kid's shitty jokes threaten to prod at a half-smile, but you pull it back down with a loving scowl. "How long have you been planning to make that joke?"

Chara giggles a little. "An hour, tops."

You sigh, but Simon's name on the kid's tongue makes what you're doing that much more realistic to you, and it's a little scary: following a fellow vigilante who somehow covered your ass during Walrider's reign. It's not looming, though; it's a threat you can name and a fear you can recognize: lack of control over a situation.

Despite, you continue to follow the blood further down the drain.

-

A house.

A shitty, washed-up house in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere USA. Surrounded by unadulterated pine trees and a front yard that looks like someone's trash bag exploded onto the lawn.

It's the first sign of life you've seen in miles, and it's your final destination via David's printed instructions. The numbers might have been inaccurate, mindfully; but Chara appears persistent on their directions, so you try to to question them since they're so dogged on the subject.

But now, they scamper to your side with retracted curiosity, clutching one of your road maps in their hands. Their eyes are all on the house before you both, seeming locked and loaded with that heavy glare they're currently wearing.  
You half-expect a face to swoop back the blinds, wondering why two complete strangers are gaping at their sub-par cabin in the woods. Maybe someone will tighten the blinds even more if you wait long enough; either way, some sign of life would be kind of nice.

You're almost ready to throw in the towel yourself, since the worst scenario you can imagine is commencing social interaction, god forbid. Those who think that being a journalist eases any of your communal burdens don't realize that you're faking it the whole time. This is no exception.

This isn't a headline that can slip through your fingers if you don't snatch it quick enough — this is something real and dangerous. This could be a trap and no one could track down your bodies — if anyone cared enough in the first place.

Oddly, Chara nudges you first. "I guess this is it," they say, in a nervous undertone prominent if you know them well enough — and you like to think that you do. They won't do anything until you go first, naturally.

So you decide to move forward. There is nothing left to lose now, and it's not like this is as hard as the reunion with David.

Eventually the door meets up with the tip of your boots, and you knock. Ever skeptical, you ensure that Chara is tucked out of sight until the looming threat is neutralized. You feel an angry beehive stir within your stomach; it's a precaution you're pleased to have.

The door swings open, to everyone's surprise — the house's presumed owner included. The greeter is taken aback by your presence to the point where he trips on the carpeting behind him; his comical — and familiar — expression double-takes one too many times as he soaks you in.

"I— Miles??"

You're not exactly onboard with what's happening either; your eyes narrow with bafflement.

"Park?"

He looks as old as you feel — ugly eyebags, greying hair, a shirt that hangs too loosely off the ribs...when he shuffles the stiff joint on his leg confirms that the prosthetic is still present. But the eyes...god, he looks like hell.

Waylon doesn't speak for a good minute, finding the situation just as bizarre as you do. So this was Simon's plan? Having the most uncalled-for reunion for Mount Massive victims ever?

He finally stutters, "W-what...what are you doing here??"

He doesn't exactly sound pleased, and you think you know why. The last time you met, the circumstances were...less than favorable.

You can only provide an awkward cough. "I, uh..." your hand finds the back of your neck, massaging the knot near your spine. "I'm guessing a quick drop-in isn’t a suitable answer?”

Waylon raises his brow, vividly displeased. “Well, I...no, I— Miles, how did you even _get_ out here? Did you— if you want your car back, you know I don’t have it anymore, right? I’m sorry but—”

“No! No,” you sputter hastily. “I’m...look, I’m just as shocked as you are, Park. I… We followed a set of directions and it lead us here. I didn’t mean—”

His eyes widen a smidge. “‘We’?” he repeats.

Fuck, wait, no—

Without your consent Chara pops up from behind and walks forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder alongside you; something intense wars on your body as Chara inspects Waylon with an open expression. Waylon returns their stare with shock, then confusion as he switches his gaze to your own and then Chara multiple times.

The exchange the two carry makes you want to shrivel in place; but eventually Chara asks you, “Do you know him?”

“Um,” you look to Park for a brief confirmation, then answer, “yeah, the...do you remember me talking about the guy who sent me the email?”

“The whistleblower?”

Waylon flinches, but you nod. “Yeah, uh, this is him.”

A blockage seems to have cleared within the kid’s face as they begin awash with sudden recognition. They process it a moment longer before, without _any_ warning, you watch in helpless shock as they whirl around and brutally kick at Waylon’s shin.

He lets out a pained gawk, but there’s a loud thunk of metal when the boot meets his khaki-covered legs, so you let out a breath when you realize that Chara hit the prosthetic leg.

Still, Waylon hobbles a little and seems properly shaken up. Chara crosses their arms when they observe his condition, then say, “That was for sending the email, asshole.”

There’s an actual _spit_ to their words, but they whirl around to you with such a sparkle to their gaze — like an eager puppy wanting approval — that you decide to discard any further questions.

It takes a minute for you to react, but eventually you just settle on a hesitant hand finding Chara’s shoulder. You watch Waylon give you a very infuriated glare at your… _semi_ -approval of the kid’s actions. You’ll admit, it was sorta nice seeing a dream come true.

“I appreciate the sentiment, kid,” you admit, “but, Park’s one of the good guys.”

Chara’s face deflates a little. “Oh,” they murmur, looking a bit guilty. Then they turn to Waylon. “Sorry.”

Surprisingly, he just shrugs it off — now that he’s standing up straight, that is. “It’s alright. I don’t blame you.” But he still looks over the kid to give you a frustrated eye that you just accept. In his shoes, you did just roll up to his secluded haven to kick him in the shin, so his irritation is justified.

You notice that he’s all-eyes on Chara when he says, “It’d be rude not to ask if you’d like to come in.”

The kid give you the mandatory glance over the shoulder, and you nod to inform them that Waylon is still safe. Still, they take a few steps back so they’re holding your sleeve as you walk into the Park’s residence.

The place is...an improvement, somewhat. You can see there was a lot more time to improvise on furniture arrangements, based on how much tidier the rooms are (no pictures hung up on the walls though, so the word ‘Home’ feels much looser and harder to cling to, you more you look around; everything is locked on Panic Mode and ready to ditch at a moment’s notice). It’s still fairly empty, save for the essential needs (i.e. a couch, a television set sitting on the carpeted floor) and the woman that catches your attention from across the hallway.

Lisa rushes to the fore instantly, her eyes glinting daggers. You think she’s about to physically assault you before you watch her reel backwards at the sight of the unknown child clutching your arm. Her presence towers over you both to such a dire degree that Chara actually clutches to you tighter, and you can feel their fingers digging into your arm brace.

Waylon holds out an arm to stop his wife from causing any alarm. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “They’re, uh...they’re friends. Miles and, um…”

He looks to Chara expectantly, who repeats their name sheepishly, as their bugged eyes are linked onto Lisa’s inquiring form. She regards them with heavy precaution, but isn’t cruel about it.

At least, until she turns to you sharply, and you almost yelp because _damn_ that woman is scary.

“What the hell do you want,” she snaps. Seems that the latest events that brought you together hasn’t flown overhead just yet…

“Uh…” Oh, right. You don’t exactly have a good reason to be here.

Luckily, Waylon drops in with a lifeline: “Miles needed some place to hide out, so I figured we’d let him crash with his, uh, friend.”

Lisa looks at her husband with bewilderment. “Way, we _can’t/_ You _know_ how strict we are with any houseguests! Much less — _him!_ ”

“Um, still here,” you wave a timid hand (the one Chara _isn’t_ suffocating), but you’re ignored.

“Lisa, please! He has a kid this time, we can’t turn him away!”

“We have kids _too,_ Waylon! And I’m not letting him get anywhere _near_ them after what happened last time he showed up!”

“Last time?” you hear Chara peep under their breath, and you feel a slew of questions about to be poured your way and you’re seriously about to fly into panic if nobody stops _talking_ —

“Hey!”

Everyone turns to the kid poking his head up around the corner — he can’t be more than ten, based on his height and the oversized clothes that barely fit his form — watches you all with a naive curiosity. Part of your instinct is to immediately think _shit,_ upon spotting a child, but considering that you’re basically _holding_ one right now, it’s a dull afterthought.

Mostly, the kid’s eyes are on his supposed-caretakers — you do vaguely remember Waylon mentioning a son or two: “What’re you guys yellin’ about over here?”

Immediately you watch both Waylon and Lisa’s demeanors go soft, so you’re assuming your theory is correct. Lisa wanders over to take the boy’s hand and he accepts. His hair is starkly-black and messy, with skin that’s not light like his father, but isn’t dark like his mother either.

As you and Chara both observe the newcomer, Waylon decides to get smart and provide some insight. He points his elbow towards the kid and says, “That’s Will. He’s my youngest.”

“Oh,” you say, because it seems appropriate.

“And, uh,” he walks over to where he can gesture someone else over — whom you can’t see due to the aforementioned corner, damn your current position — and a much taller kid walks over into view. He’s darker than his supposed sibling, but his hair is a light shade of brown. He looks at you both curiously, his gaze attaching itself to Chara’s.

“This is Dalton,” Waylon concludes, giving his older son a pat on the shoulder. Dalton’s gaze doesn’t leave Chara for a while longer, and it’s making your skin itch.

Surprisingly, Chara releases themself from your arm with a brief sensation of ease; you watch it conflict on their expression for a moment, before they atone with a polite smile that tugs too tightly on their face.

“Greetings,” they say to both the boys. “I am Chara.”

Dalton doesn’t say anything, just shrugs and looks disinterested like most boys his age pretend to be (it doesn’t get better, kid) and Will trots over with the enthusiasm obtained from being a youth. “Hi Chara!” he crows, releasing himself from his mother.

He extends an arm out as he runs, but Chara gives a daunted gasp at the sudden movement and shrinks right back into your hold. You feel the flinch escape their body with a long shudder, and you just help them ride through it; your hands draw down their back and hair with practiced etiquette, having done this dance before.

Now it’s the Park’s turn to look misplaced in the situation; even Lisa seems startled by Chara’s severe reaction. Will just looks up at you with hurt puppy-dog eyes, brimming with confusion.

Waylon jumps in to save the day, again. He reaches down at an ajar angle and says softly, “It’s okay, they were just surprised because they don’t like sudden movements. It’s like when Daddy has bad days.”

The kid makes a silent O with his mouth and you see recognition dawn on the remaining family members. Will looks guilt-ridden when he turns to a shaky Chara and murmurs, “‘M sorry.”

You’re about to answer in place and explain that it’s okay, it happens to both of you actually because you’re both hot messes (feat. Waylon, apparently), but Chara resurfaces with a thick sniff, and they straighten their posture as they turn to face Will. 

They still look a tad flustered, but their tone is raspy yet poise when they answer, “It’s alright, you didn’t know any better. I guess I’m not used to people being that pleased to see me,” they laugh a bit self-deprecatingly.

He still remains distraught until Chara perches downward and placed a hand on his ratty hair. “You’re very frightening, aren’t you?” they ask him, and Will’s eyes brighten. He giggles a little in response, but makes no further moves.

Wow, um. Alright.

So that happened.

You do feel a burst of pride at the kid’s handling of the situation, but you feel your arms grow empty without Chara pressed against them. It’s strange, they really have grown up.

Waylon asks Lisa, “Hey hon, you think we could find a place for our guests to sleep?”

Still as displeased of your presence as ever, she ponders. Then, “Chara can stay in the boys’ room, if that’s alright with, um—”

“Them,” both you and Waylon interject.

Lisa looks surprised, but nods dubitably, “If it’s alright with them.”

Dalton looks over to his mother with a vibrant expression you can’t identify, while Will shouts “Yeah!”, so his stance on the topic is easy to decipher. Chara looks shy as they look at Lisa and murmur, “Maybe.”

“Do you want to stay with me?” you ask.

“Y— I mean,” Chara looks at the Park ensemble surrounding you both, then drops their head when they correct themself with, “I’ll be happy to accommodate with whatever is convenient.”

“Okay,” Lisa says, “I’ll go get some spare blankets for you, then.”

“Thank you.”

And then Lisa walks off to perform said task, while Dalton leaves with her. Will tugs a brugrudged Chara along, and they look at you with a split expression of both terror and amusement, but you can’t interpret the dominant emotion since they whirl back around to tend to the child.

You’re about to follow suit, but Waylon’s hand finds your shoulder. Without any sort of warning, you jump a little, since his grip is firm, but his rocky stare is what makes your heart drop to your stomach.

“Hey,” he says, “let’s take a walk.”

-

The abandoned fields out back of the Park’s residence have nothing on your brother’s tended land, with all its choppy underbrush and thick, long grass that whips harshly at your thighs when you lumber through it. The bugs are louder, too.

But you will give credit to the sparse pines that provide a clearer view of the clouds overhead; you think it’s really pretty out here around sunset, when all the fireflies climb out of the overgrowth and crawl into the skies. You almost want to ask if it’s a common task Waylon performs with his sons (since Chara was all too ecstatic about re-learning the joys of capturing fireflies), but you refrain yourself. The air is still too stagnant for small talk, and Waylon Park certainly isn’t a person you’d break many social boundaries for.

He leads you out into the thicker area of the woodland, and you’re beginning to have complaints about the thorns poking through your jeans and the fact that you trip on a branch or root every ten steps. Waylon is trudging along at a slower pace, but his steps are calculated and fluid with experience. You wonder if walking off bad nightmares is a common trope for Mount Massive survivors, or if maybe he’s just better at hiking with his one good leg then you’ll ever be.

Either way, you don’t want to think too hard about it.

With the house far behind you, Waylon stops. He gives the forest around you a once-over, and meanwhile you relapse from deja-vu over yet another encounter occurring in the woodlands. He gives you a long gaze that you uphold at patiently as you can; like it or not, you’re _still_ an intruder in this situation.

Waylon’s exhaustion from the hike finally bleeds through his carriage, and he lets out a hefty sigh as he collapses with two left feet onto a decayed log. You’re about to lean onto a nearby tree in your own means of repose when out of nowhere you’re asked, “I need to know why you’re here, Miles.”

Your back is shot upright immediately by the muted sense of intimidation, laced within Waylon’s question. He sounds tired, and his bagged eyes tell nothing contrasting such; but he stays determined to give you a chilly stare when he looks up at you.

You don’t fight him on it; there really is no reason to lie anymore.

“I didn’t want to,” you tell him, “I don’t want to see _anybody_ from my past, especially not anybody related...to that incident,” you fail on wording, but you know Waylon understands. “I wasn’t lying when I said we were brought here by someone else.”

With heavy restraint, Waylon asks, “Who sent you here?”

“Um, Simon? Simon Peacock?”

That seems to do the trick in winning you over; the whole setting shapes into a friendlier ambience than when you first set foot in it, and Waylon looks like he’s seeing you as something _other_ than a lunatic for the first time today. He sits up straighter, too.

“You spoke with Simon?” he asks, tone awestruck.

“...I’m guessing you know him?”

“He— he helped me escape,” Waylon says, and he sounds like the confession was a load off his chest; there’s a wisp of acclaim, too, at the thought of it. “To get...what happened to me out there. He said he helps other whistleblowers out in escaping Murkoff.”

You still frown. “And you believe him?”

“I don’t see why he would’ve helped me otherwise.” He leans forward to rest his elbows on both knees. “He had nothing to gain from it; I didn’t have any money to offer. Which is why I even bothered to take up that god-awful job in the _first_ place.”

Waylon then gives you a strange half-smile. “But it’s not about why _I_ ended up there that’s important.”

You never put yourself in Park’s position before; how and why a man who fought Murkoff with nothing but a copious weight of integrity and a laptop, would ever end up working for those grubby bastards. Especially since his own virtues appears to have remained intact after the matter; it couldn’t have been insincere if otherwise, could it?

This new line of thought grates uncomfortably against the new information regarding Simon’s affiliations; it’s a lot to take in. But you’re relieved, also, that it all seems to be connected rather than aimless chance. So, Simon the Whistleblower; fitting, considering his monologue on anti-Big Business.

You’re about to concoct some sort of apology to Waylon for your gross misinterpretation of his character when he looks up again with a new wave of intensity.

“The Walrider,” he murmurs, “that was...that was _you,_ wasn’t it?”

A chill breeze punctures your skin.

“I…”

“Back at the condo,” Waylon continues, “when you showed up and it… _appeared_ , like it was materializing out of your body...I saw it. I just… I don’t think I could wrap my head around it, at the time. But it was _with_ you. When you stabbed that man and walked out, and— I swear, your _voice_ —”

He stops as the strain in his voice becomes to vivid to miss. But he remains firm, even as he shakes away the bad memories and you’re brewing with guilt, guilt, guilt…

Waylon resurfaces with the vigor of being splashed in the face with cold water, which provides only a modicum of comfort; he looks firmly at you, and you realize he’s awaiting a response.

You look down, shuffling your feet against the dirt and crunchy leaves.

“I...yeah, that was...yeah,” you murmur stiffly. “You weren’t hallucinating there. The Walrider, he’s...he’s here.”

“Here as in…”

For lack of better terms, you point a deprecating finger to your chest; nothing follows afterwards but the cold shock emanating from Waylon’s position is somehow worse.

Then, he says with a strange undertone: “Show me.”

It’s a strange request, but you feel like you do owe him this; even if he’ll probably die of cardiac arrest and you’ll have to explain to Lisa why you killed her husband and also still need a place to stay tonight.

Regardless, you loosen.

The release comes more as a slow sigh from the lips than anything dire; it’s like ripping a wet paper in two, or falling into bed and relieving your bone-deep aches.

The Walrider appears, as he always does. He’s curious as to the summon, but nothing vicious snaps at your mind like danger, or hunger, or anything, for that matter. He regards Waylon as less of a presence than Simon was. Which begs the further question of Waylon’s probability of taking the title of Host, but you don’t press further in fear of enabling something.

Like you expected, Park is a deer in headlights at the sight of the Walrider. It’s not a weird reaction in the slightest: you figured he’s haunted enough nightmares (your own included) that the real deal doesn’t really contrast with expectations. He _is_ notably terrifying, and although you don’t know Waylon’s exact relations to him, you do know that the past was enough to horrify him.

In a strange bout of sympathy, you say, “He won’t hurt you.”

Waylon still doesn’t budge: he just gapes at the beast like it’s the last sight he’ll ever see, and he’s soaking it all in.

You give a small cough. “Park, if you don’t… You don’t _have_ to do this.”

There’s another minute of awkward staring before Waylon swallows harshly, and nods without looking at you. Taking this as a cue, the Walrider vanishes on your command; you’re reunited in seconds and the nanos dig into whatever open pores they can find until you’re all set again.

Expectantly you wait for Park to get out of his brain freeze, feeling the warmth of summer settle in again after the short breeze passes. To further prove that you have no hard feelings (the Walrider still remains uninterested) you step forward and ignore the sharp tremble you receive as you settle down on Waylon’s log.

Interestingly, he scoots over slightly to make you room.

You both stare off into nothing for a minute longer — with Waylon processing his PTSD startup commands and yourself drifting from mental absence to a conscious melancholy.

Finally, Waylon says: “So that was why you wanted to know about the Walrider.”

You shrug a little. “Kinda. I didn’t really remember a lot of what happened but I knew Billy died. I had some amnesia from _how_ I became this — still do, honestly — but we’re here now, so. I guess that’s that.”

Waylon hums. “Guess so,” he murmurs absently. “But… Miles, I feel like I never sincerely apologized to you for what I roped you into. I really am sorry, for what I did. There were probably better ways I should have handled my concerns, I just— I didn’t know what to _do_. I needed help, but I should’ve thought more about how my actions...may have hurt you. Especially now that I know that… _this_ ” he gestures to you wildly, “is the outcome of what I did.”

You put up a hand.

“Park, _I_ went into that asylum,” you tell him, sober. “I was probably gonna end up there anyway: I knew what Murkoff rats did, I just didn’t know the extent of it. You sending that, was…” you give a breathless, choked scoff in place of laughter: “It was _it_ , for me. I just thought, ‘God! This could be it for them if I could just’—”

You stop here, feeling something collide in your throat; it’s hard, thinking about what you were doing on the night you printed out that email. When you drove up that hill.

“...I wouldn’t have found the kid if it wasn’t for you.” You see that Waylon has snapped his head around to face you properly, but you pretend not to notice. A smile creeps onto your face: a loving, fleeting thing. “Park, you...you really did do me a huge favor. And, I was a dumbass, and you were a big dumbass too, sending it to a journalist with no real paying job. But, Waylon… That kid is the one good thing that ever came out of this whole mess.”

You turn to him with a better smile this time. “Thank you for saving them. And thanks for letting me get to know them. I mean it, just watching them grow up… They wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. So thank you.”

Your forgiveness is a weird, warm fragment in your chest that neither you nor Waylon know how to handle; it won’t make anything easier, but it feels like it’s something important that you need to hold onto.

But Waylon’s eyes are rimmed damp, the poor bastard; it’s enough to have you snap out of whatever gooey emotion you’re experiencing to laugh at his face, which is currently creasing with unshed tears.

He looks confused, and you snort. “Sorry,” you chuckle. “Didn’t mean to make you think I actually had any emotion tied to me.”

Immediately Waylon rubs his eyes in a bout of defense. “N-no! No, jeez, way to kill it, man,” he sniffs. “I actually thought we were getting somewhere.”

You laugh as you stand up, stretching enough to pop your back but not to strain any other muscles, heaven forbid. “Yeah, sorry, I’m a genuine downer and I tend to keep that title, thanks. Nothing but ill-intent on all wrongdoers, no forgiveness here.”

Waylon chuckles. “Sorry to hear that, then.”

You both stretch out a little longer, being the physically-sensitive folk that you are, and you fall in line behind Waylon as he starts to walk back the way you came.

“Hey,” he calls over to you, “when you mentioned Chara, I wanted to, um… I wanted to say I’m glad you found them again.”

You nod a little. “Me too,” you say quietly.

“And… In terms of...the Walrider, I don’t think I should have to say it, but…” he stalls, “Don’t mention it to Lisa right now, okay? I mean, I’ll mention it _eventually_ , but you can tell she’s really walking on eggshells right now, and what you did back then...it really kinda blew her over.

“But she’s not gonna take it out on Chara or anything,” he promises. “So just...no Walrider until this all gets sorted out. She’s got a new job and I want her to know that I’m not leaving our sons with a handicapped dad and a homicidal ghost-thing when she’s off to work.”

Understandable. “I don’t really think we’ll be here for that long,” you reply, “To be honest, I’m not sure why Simon brought me here, but if he doesn’t show _why_ soon then I’m gonna call it quits and go home.”

“Home?” Waylon asks.

“Yeah, home,” you say. “Some people have them. I happen to be one of those people”

You munch through the undergrowth a while longer with impatient bugs wailing in place of conversation. Eventually you spot the house, softly shrouded with distance, and something within loosens a hair.

Then you hear Waylon murmur, “I’m glad to hear that.”

-

You return after leaving your gross shoes on the back stoop and enter through the sliding door, back into the Park’s living room. There’s no distinctive sign of life when you enter, but after a moment you can overhear one of the boys talking upstairs.

Waylon says that he’s going to start dinner and leaves you to make a spot on the couch for the night; there’s a television in the corner but due to your chronic phobia of cable, you decide to just get started on making your makeshift bed (the Depression Pit, as Chara’s dubbed it). There are linens that have been folded on the coffee table, so you assume that Chara has already picked out their blankets and you take the leftovers.

From the next room over, you hear Waylon turning on the stove and beginning to take out a few supplies from around the kitchen; it’s a kind ambience to the ears, given that the sizzling of the stove will please your brainmate, and that both David and Jackson were avid fans of the kitchen, too. It provides the same comfort of background music as you multitask.

Eventually footsteps wander into your workplace, and you turn with a note of dread that you’re expecting to see Lisa glaring at you with avid dismay. But you’re happy to find that it’s Chara, instead.

They walk up and sit on the chair adjacent to the couch where you’re setting up, as to not interfere with you adjusting the blankets. “Where did you go?” they ask.

“Waylon wanted to talk for a minute, so we went outside for a while,” you explain. As you’re putting a pillowcase over a pillow, you ask them, “Were you okay while I was out?”

Chara eyerolls the question. “I’m not a dog, Miles, I’m not going to bark incessantly until you return.” But the irritation is short-lived, their knees curling into their chest as you watch you work. Their tone is gentle when they say, “I was playing with Will.”

You nod approvingly. “That sounds like fun.”

“It was.” Their arms wrap around their legs and you see their eyes grow ancient. “He reminds me of someone, so that made it enjoyable.”

You tighten your mouth a little, but like always you don’t press at Chara’s bruises when they’re outside of a familiar environment; besides, you think you’re still in hot water with regards to last night’s question. So you just continue your work and give them a momentary glance as they cocoon into themself; you watch to make sure their fingers don’t find bare skin.

When they catch you staring, they ask, “What?”

You hesitate, trying to meld your thoughts into something valuable. You just end up with, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Chara looks at you strangely, which isn’t abnormal in itself, so you keep working until you’re satisfied. Then you fluff the pillow to ensure maximum-coziness.

You hear the kid rise from their seat, and then wrap around your middle with their face meshed against the side of your ribs; since you’re bent down, you try to adjust as best you’re able to acquire a better angle.

They muffle into your jacket, “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

It’s something you hold onto for the rest of the evening, and what you eventually doze off to. Whatever Simon wants of you after this, you’re more confident in whatever the next level of the journey will need.

There have been worse demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i](http://of-spaceandstars.tumblr.com/post/177933947364/here-is-the-joy-here-is-the-grief-here-is-the) || epitaph is from welcome to night vale podcast


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